


In Rainbows, It Separates

by MotherOfCups



Series: The Iris Oracle [3]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: AMAB Asra, Dysfunctional Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Healing, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Magic, Memories, Multi, Novelization, OT3, Part 3 of 4, Polyamory, Smut, Tarot, Trauma, Witchcraft, canon-divergent, content warnings, feedback WELCOMED, growing together, mental health, we're going darker, we're going deeper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 159,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21732550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherOfCups/pseuds/MotherOfCups
Summary: The Wheel has turned and the Fool's journey continues. With Asra and Julian at her side, Iris's light grows; together, they discover what has been hidden in darkness for longer than any of them know. But what happens when Iris is presented with a bargain of her own?
Relationships: Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana), Apprentice/Asra/Julian Devorak, Apprentice/Julian Devorak, Asra/Julian Devorak, Asra/Julian Devorak/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Iris Oracle [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491047
Comments: 49
Kudos: 59





	1. Justice, Part 1: So Be It, I've Done What I've Done

**Author's Note:**

> This is part three of a four part series. Read part one [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712947/chapters/49204718), and part two [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21120302/chapters/50258405). 
> 
> I can't write without music. Listen along [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/11blweUtQklVHHtxeAP11U).
> 
> Content warnings are noted at the beginning of each chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tori Amos - Cornflake Girl**
> 
> _CW: References to medical gore, torture, medical cruelty_

When Julian blinked his blurry eyes open the next morning, it was still early, the sun just peeking over the horizon, casting pale green not-light over the guest bedroom. Iris was asleep in his arms, her cheek nestled against his chest; he could feel Asra’s warmth against his back, the steady ocean sound of his deep-sea breath against his skin.

He watched the rare creature in his arms as her shapely shoulders rose with each inhalation, relaxed with each exhale. To him, Iris was achingly beautiful – sloping jaw, high cheekbones, expressive, strong brows framing downturned, deep blue eyes (he was a fool for a pair of dark eyes… that was how he fell for Asra, too), and that sweet, pink mouth. But in her sleep, she was ethereal, her full lips parted, her brow unburdened, her long, dark lashes floating over the softness of her cheeks, her shorn hair wildly ruffled, a halo around her brow in the waking whimper of dawn. 

A jumble of emotions shook Julian as he gently pulled her closer into his embrace. She grunted quietly, her voice soft as a dew-strewn spiderweb, as she nuzzled her face into his bare chest before settling back into sleep. He ached as he remembered what Asra had told him the night before, that they had loved each other before; he had always suspected this was true, but even when Iris confirmed that they had known each other so many nights ago, he couldn’t wrap his mind around forgetting the gorgeous woman in front of him.

Now, he would give anything to have those memories back – though his body remembered her, his fingers, his tongue, his lips, his hips, he wanted to remember their conversations, her brilliant ideas, her beautiful observations, her favorite things. He wanted to worship at her feet, to die for her. Again, he felt the familiar urge to flee, the sweltering fear that flooded him instinctually, that he would hurt her and damage her, turn her away from him – it was easier for him to leave, to break his own heart. But when she hummed, wrapped her arms around him, gently thumbed the nip of his waist, pulling him even closer to her, he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from her. 

“She’s enchanting, isn’t she?” A sleepy, silken baritone whispered into his ear before warm lips brushed his neck; Asra kissed down the fine knobs of Julian’s spine, one by one by one. “I still can’t believe she’s real.”

“She’s a vision.” Julian whispered. “I don’t deserve her.” 

Asra hesitated his descent down Julian’s neck. “Ilya...” he whispered, his voice soft, dripping in sadness, before it simmered over with calm. “Do you still like to play games, Ilya? Be obedient? Follow orders?” 

Julian’s body tensed slightly as a familiar desire flooded him at the sound of Asra’s voice; his sexless morning wood surged with heat, twitching heavily against the soft hair of Iris’s mound. He need only let his breath catch as Asra’s teeth grazed against the svelte silhouette of his shoulder, shuddering, desperate. 

Asra chuckled, his soft voice echoing darkly through Julian’s body. “You’ve been with Iris...you know she’s insatiable.” He murmured. “You said last night you wanted to make her come over and over again, but can you keep up with her?” 

Julian’s throat was dry now, his chest hot, his cock throbbing; he felt Asra’s cock stir against his back, and his flush deepened as his bit his lip, desire like darkness dancing through him. “What do I need to do?” 

Asra swirled his tongue around Julian’s ear before whispering, “Make her come three times, and I’ll reward you. If you can’t...well...” His voice trailed off as his lips left Julian’s skin; he pulled his body away, rolling over onto his back and gently running his fingers over the seam of his tip as he watched Julian through lidded eyes. “Oh, and Ilya, honey...don’t come before she’s done.” 

Asra thought Julian couldn’t redden more, but he was proven wrong as the doctor exhaled shakily through bitten lips; he didn’t break eye contact with Asra as he gently extricated his body from Iris’s. With a soft groan, she rolled on to her stomach, burying her cheek in the silk sheets. Julian, lips trembling, came to hover over her, beautiful on his hands and knees, before he dipped down to kiss her neck, her shoulders, the small of her back. 

Iris loosed a sleepy, wondrous moan, and her eyes slowly fluttered open: she craned her neck back to meet one eye with Julian’s, her brow furrowed with amusement. “Good morning…?” She murmured. 

“Good morning, darling.” He crooned, his kisses now dispersing down her spine, punctuated with random licks and gentle nips; a graceful hand trailed down her side, his fingertips tracing the smoothness of her back, the sweetly formed muscle, swathed in a layer of softness, before grabbing hard at her waist, eliciting a quiet grunt from her. 

He dragged his teeth across her back, and Iris arched at the sensation, lifting her ass a little into the air; Julian’s hand flew down to her raised buttocks and groped as he licked down the length of her spine. Iris turned her head to the other side, and saw Asra watching with heavy eyes, gently touching himself; she turned back to meet Julian’s gaze as he brought two fingers to his mouth, wetting them before slipping them between Iris’s legs, parting the lips of her sex and touching her. 

She let her head drop back down into the sheets as soft pleasure coursed through her body, spiked with shock at the sudden touch; she whimpered as Julian leaned back onto his knees, letting his other hand trail over her body before grabbing her other cheek, groping her firmly as he increased his speed so, so slowly. Iris bit her lip and lifted her hips even more, urging him on; she cried out quietly when his fingers retreated and he grasped her hips, guiding her up onto her knees, to the edge of the bed. 

She was stretched in front of him now, her back long and her hips open, her knees wide, feet off the bed; he traced the sinuous curve of her back, her ass, with both hands, as he settled on his knees on the floor. With a muffled hum, a low groan, he pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses into her fullness, the plush of her seat – and then his tongue slipped over her, warm, velvety, roving, before slinking between her lips. 

Iris quivered – the position was slightly uncomfortable, but the pleasure that surged through her, from the hotness of it, Julian’s sudden need, made it worth it. She cried out softly as Julian increased his speed, his strength, the pressure of his fingers against the fleshy give of her thighs, and in return he groaned softly, letting his hungry eye rove to Asra, who smiled wickedly, raising one eyebrow at him. 

Iris circled her hips against Julian’s lips, making him groan again, his breath hot against her vulva. Julian let his tongue run over her slick skin to taste her blooming sex before returning to the seat of her pleasure, now running the flat of his tongue over and over against her until she cried out, bucking her hips against him, encouraging him. He obeyed, increasing his speed, and after a few minutes of this Iris whimpered loudly as the heat in her dispersed, surging to her fingertips, her toes, her ears; she gently cried out, her voice high and sweet, as she orgasmed. 

While she was still reeling from her release, Julian guided her hips up until she was on her knees and elbows, his view of her back reminding him of the wasp-waist of a vielle; his erection stirred as he leaned forward over her, whispering, “Is this okay?” 

“Oh gods, yes...please...” Iris moaned, her voice wanton as she leaned down onto her elbows, pushing her hips back into his; head was amazing, but after four orgasms from oral in a row, she was dying to have a cock inside her. She cast the barrier spell over him, and he leaned back, balancing on his knees, letting the otherworldly warmth wash over him. He traced his tip over her clitoris, still sensitive and electric, but the heat of his cock was delicious as he frotted against her, each time grunting a little at her wetness, her heat, before guiding himself to his mark and slowly entering her. 

Iris hummed, throwing her head up and arching her back, even though Julian was going slow and gentle, his thrusts shallow as her body relaxed around him. It was only when Iris pushed her hips back on his, taking in more of his length, that he moaned, “Oh, Iris...” before hilting himself into her with one fluid, forceful movement. 

Just a foot or two away, Asra was thoroughly enjoying himself, lounging on his side, his cool, dreamy gaze tracing the silhouette Iris and Julian struck together while he touched himself with full, languid strokes. Iris let their eyes lock, biting her lip gently as Julian wrapped his hands around her hips and pulled her back and forth on him while he thrusted, a little more roughly, making her whine as he stroked her g-spot. 

He let out something like a pained grunt at her noises, and screwed his eyes shut in concentration as he kept up his pace. It was divine to be inside of her, skin on skin, heat on heat, to have her gorgeous body sprawled out before him; already his body was inching towards his edge, and he couldn’t help but groan her name again as pleasure stirred hotly inside of him, a warning. 

Iris arched her back and pushed herself up off of her elbows, weight in her palms now, changing Julian’s angle; he moaned and she cried out as he brushed harder, more directly against her g-spot. She wanted more of that.

“Ilya, harder...” She cried, looking over her shoulder at him, her mouth wide, her hair wildly haloed around her forehead, sweat starting to bead around her temples. Julian bit his lip at the sight, her contorting her body for him, her gaze heavy with lust, with need. He snapped his hips into her now, fast and hard, and Iris laughed with pleasure before letting his name fall over her lips like an ecstatic litany (how she ever said Julian in bed before, she didn’t know; Ilya was delicious, rolling easily off her tongue, perfect for stretching and savoring). 

She leaned heavily on one elbow and reached back with the other hand to touch herself, to rub two fingers frantically against her wet clit as Julian kept pace, his teeth gritted and breath huffing with exertion as he tried to fight back the orgasm that swelled inside him, his fingers digging so hard into her hips that they would certainly leave welts later. 

After a minute or two of this touching, of this thrusting, Iris’s voice grew even wilder, even more wanton, her movements against Julian’s hips obscene, as an orgasm boomed through her body, thunderous, voluptuous, and soul-rending. Julian had to avert his eyes from the way she threw her head back, the way her beautiful shoulders shook, her muscled back contorted, his face twisted into a grimace as his nerves screamed for release. 

Iris had expected him to come with her; when she didn’t hear the tiny whines, the choked grunts, the quiet gasps that she had associated with his ecstasy, she turned her head to meet his gaze and moan, “Oh, Ilya, darling, come for me...” 

Besides them, Asra chuckled darkly, his smirk absolutely evil. The groan of frustration that rose from Julian was animal, and he pulled himself out of Iris slowly, gently, so as to not trigger his orgasm. “Not yet...” He grunted, grabbing her waist roughly and flipping her onto her back; he threw her legs over his shoulders and leaned over her, raising her hips so her knees were almost to her shoulders. He planted his hands around her waist and plunged back inside her, and his voice was tremulous, panting, as he thrusted into her, even faster than before, his flush completely consuming his cheeks, his neck. 

Iris gasped – in this position, he felt impossibly big, she felt impossibly tight, and she was still riding the high from her previous orgasm; the animal part of her brain clawed at the chance for more pleasure, knowing that if she worked quickly, another orgasm would follow. She shimmied her hips against his, using her knees on his shoulders for leverage, and wrapped her shaking fingers around his hips, pulling him even closer to her. 

“Oh, fuck, Iris...” Julian cried. “Fuck...fuck...” He could feel the Iris’s sex growing hotter and hotter, the clenching of her muscles growing tighter and tighter, her moans growing louder and louder, and he could cry from how exquisite it was to see her this way, to give her this much pleasure. The longer he held out, the stronger, the more heavenly the pulses that rocked his core felt; he secretly blessed Asra for his challenge. 

It was Asra’s voice that rose to him. “Iris is so close, Ilya...tell her how it feels...that drives her wild…” 

The sound Julian made was pathetic and sweet, flush pulsing hot against his cheeks; he hadn’t accounted for this. Under him, Iris whimpered: “Il...Ilya, please…oh please...” 

Julian reddened even more, but his words tumbled breathlessly from him. “Oh, Iris – ” He panted, his voice catching, hitching, with each thrust. “It feels as if – as if you were made for me – oh, you’re so soft – so _warm_ – so gorgeous – so fucking w-wet, darling – I want to fill you up – I want to never leave your side – if you put a collar on me I would follow you like a dog – oh, fuck, _f-fuck_ – ”

Iris moaned, surprised, as Julian grunted quietly, slowing his thrusts into soft rolls of his hips as he came; she felt his hot cum filling her, a gentle whining groan rising from his throat with each half-hearted thrust, each spurt. 

Iris craned up to kiss him, to reassure him, but he bit his lip, hesitant, his eyes flitting to Asra. Iris turned to him too, and saw that he was shaking his head slightly, tsking very softly. 

“Ilya, Ilya, Ilya...” Asra’s eyes glinted wickedly. “What will you do to make it up to Iris?” 

Iris pinked as she saw it, the way Julian flushed, flustered, cowed, the way Asra, slinked into a sitting position, his one-sided smirk absolutely lecherous; this was a pleasure game they were playing with each other, with her as the toy, the object of their affections. Panting softly, his head still spinning, Julian pulled out of Iris with a squelch; before Iris could protest, he buried his head between her legs, lapping furiously at her, tasting his own salty, bitter seed mixed with the heat of their sex, the sweetness of her desire. 

Iris keened, hot at the thought of Julian licking his own, still-hot cum from her; she hardly noticed when Asra approached Julian from behind, straddling him. Julian grunted loudly against Iris’s sex, then moaned as Asra breached carefully him with a lubricated finger. The groans that fell across the doctor’s lips were filthy, his voice leaden with need as Asra thrust gently into him, letting the muscles relax and stretch fully around his finger; when there was almost no resistance, Asra inserted another. 

Julian threw his head back, his lips and chin wet and slick; he grimaced and gritted his teeth, but the little whimper that rose from him betrayed how much he was enjoying Asra’s touch. Julian’s hands shot up Iris’s body and grabbed both of her breasts hard, making her keen, before he dove back into her. She wrapped her legs over his shoulders and ran her feet over his back, changing the angle so he could play with her even more; he responded by swirling and pressing his tongue against her anus, mimicking Asra’s touches against him. 

Iris giggled with delight, enjoying the variety of sensations Julian was lavishing on her; he moved back up to her clitoris pulsed his tongue against it just as Asra growled, “Ilya, honey, are you ready for your punishment?” 

“Oh fuck, yes...” Julian whined quietly. She couldn’t believe how aroused she was watching them together; Asra wasn’t this dominant when it was just her and him, and Julian _certainly_ wasn’t this submissive, but to see both of them this way – it was a rare treat, for her eyes only, and she wanted to drink it in, to savor it. 

Asra reached forward and laced his fingers through Julian’s auburn waves before pulling back roughly, wrenching his mouth away from Iris; the magician leaned forward and snaked his hand under Julian’s chest to Iris’s pussy, plunging two fingers in to gently scoop out some of the frothy mixture inside her, Julian’s cum and saliva and her lubrication, the mingling of their bodies. Iris mewed and Julian moaned as Asra withdrew, and, with a fiery gaze that met Iris’s, Asra smoothed the slickness into Julian. There was a flash of purple light and heat before he guided his oil-slicked tip to the ring of muscle, grabbing hard at the firm of Julian’s ass before pushing through – torturous, slow, past the first pop, bottoming out at the second, with one fluid movement of his slender hips. 

“Fuck, fucking gods!” Julian cried loudly, his face going completely red as his insides convulsed and twisted with bliss; Asra loosened his grip on Julian’s hair so he could drop back down into Iris’s sex, laving the flat of his tongue up her whole sex before flicking her clit, quickly, over and over. Asra pulled out and thrust back in slowly at first, before increasing his speed, bucking his hips against Julian’s, jostling both the doctor and Iris. His gaze and Iris’s met again, and they held each other’s eyes as Asra’s breath spun up out of him in breathless pants, his soft baritone voice drenched in pleasure, sunk deep in the velvety grip of one lover, watching his other lover, his partner, be brought to ecstasy for the third time that morning. 

With a few final flicks of Julian’s skillful tongue, Iris came again, this time arching her back into him and grinding her hips against his lips wildly, giggling and mewing; he clutched at her waist and groaned, savoring her sounds, her movements, now able to focus fully on the cock stuffed inside him. 

Asra bit his lip and groaned as Julian raised himself onto his elbows and popped his hips up; the doctor nearly shouted as Asra’s tip stroked and stroked against the knob of his prostrate, making his own cock twitch wildly. Iris started – she hadn’t even noticed that he had gotten hard again. With a wicked smile, she scooted herself under him, and he trembled in anticipation and let loose a choked cry as she guided his cock back into her; she planted her lips against his and their tongues swirled, the heat from his grunts pressing into her mouth as Asra continued to grind into him from behind. 

She took control, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders, shimmying her hips against him using her knees and legs as leverage. There was no way Julian could last long with this, Asra’s cock constantly massaging against his prostate, Iris’s gentle, pulsating warmth smoothing over his cock. With what could only be described as a howl of ecstasy, he came again inside of Iris, as she cooed his name encouragingly. She planted her feet on Asra’s chest now, and he greedily grabbed one and pulled it up to his mouth, sucking hungrily on her biggest toe. This, combined with the delicious pulses of Julian’s orgasm, he couldn’t take it any longer; with a muffled, choked-out cry, he came, too, deep inside Julian. 

The sun had fully risen at this point, painting the room in glistening pale pinks and lemon yellows, the sky now streaked with blue; as the lovers disentangled themselves and fell back into the bed, Iris couldn’t help but drop a long, lingering kiss on Julian’s lips before moving over to Asra, letting their tongues dance together before settling between them, their breaths coming to them in soft, sweet pants, as their heads spun, taking in all that they had just done together. 

For many minutes, they lay together silently, their heart rates leveling, Iris’s head resting on Julian’s strong arm, Asra on his stomach, his arm flung over her and Julian’s waists. His lips found her ear, dropping sweet, careless kisses on it and her neck, before he whispered, “I love you, my heart.” Iris nuzzled into his kiss as Julian shifted beside them, saying nothing, kiss the nape of Iris’s neck, right where her hair was shorn, his lips lingering. 

Iris didn’t mean to doze off, but when she regained consciousness, she was in the bed alone; she shot up, rubbing her eyes sleepily. She must not have slept for long, because Asra and Julian were still in the room, though now they were dressed; the light was longer, oranger, more golden, suggesting early morning but past breakfast. 

Someone, Portia, perhaps, had sent up breakfast and freshly laundered clothing for all three of them. Julian and Asra were at the little breakfast table, talking quietly; Julian’s fingers were threaded through his wild waves, limbs sprawled haphazardly as he leaned back, shook his head; Asra leaned on his elbow, chin in hand, eyes downcast, glazed in thought. Vasalisa lounged at Asra’s feet as he stroked her fur, a bloody, empty plate mere inches from her muzzle. Iris shifted forward in the bed, sitting up; she was surprised to find that someone had cleaned her up in her sleep. She swung her feet onto the floor and stretched, groaning a little, catching both their gazes, shadowy, solemn. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Asra murmured, seriousness washing away for something more playful, his violet eyes coy. 

“The kitchens sent up breakfast. I imagine you’re hungry.” Julian winked knowingly, his eyes twinkling, as he poured her a cup of coffee; as she stood and crossed the room to the table, her heart swelled to see him add a spoonful of honey and a lick of cream for her. 

There were only two chairs at the small table, both occupied; Asra opened his arms to her, and she sank into his lap, snuggling into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her naked waist and rested his chin on her shoulder, dropping one lingering kiss against the creamy skin of her neck as she picked at what was left on his plate, toasted marble rye bread spread with mashed, salt-and-pepper avocado, soft, tangy sheep’s cheese, sliced cucumber and Gallipoli pepper, alongside an array of sliced fruit. Vasalisa, with a satisfied growl, nosed her muzzle onto Iris’s nude lap; Iris scratched her behind the ears.

“Why so dour?” She asked them quietly, as she nibbled on the corner of the toast. Asra met Julian’s gaze as he ran his thumbed absently at the corner of his mouth. 

“We need to go back to the library today.” Julian said, hardly a murmur. “Asra said something about a book you two are looking for, and I...” His grave expression returned, the steely set of his brow, the slight downturn of the corners of his lips. “I need to find my cure from the dungeons, and the memories that may come with it. But I don’t remember where the dungeons are, or how to get to them.” 

“Mmmmm.” Iris said, tapping her cheek with two fingers as she selected a small bundle of red grapes from the fruit. “That does complicate things, I suppose. Would Portia know?” 

Julian pressed his lips together in thought. “She might; I could ask her. But knowledge of our research labs was hidden from the general public, and a lot of the palace staff as well, so it’s possible the location wasn’t passed down to her. Our best bet is the library; it was home base for all the researchers, including the doctors, so I’m sure there’s a way to the dungeons from there.” 

“To the library it is, then.” Iris said, holding her hand up in front of her face to hide her chewing as she polished off her breakfast. “We should also probably check in with Nadia. I’d be surprised if the Courtiers haven’t responded to her news that we’re no longer pursuing you as a suspect in the investigation.” 

“We need to tread carefully.” Asra said quietly, expression dark. “There are eyes and ears all over the palace, and the Courtiers...they’re not harmless. I would prefer not to cross paths with them until we have to.” 

Iris nodded, draining the last of her coffee and swooping down to kiss Asra’s sculpted, amber cheek before standing. She was just crossing to the changing screen when the door flew open on its tracks without so much as a knock; Iris rushed to cover herself as Portia, red in the face and drenched in sweat, chest heaving, shouldered her way into the guestroom. 

“Gods, Portia!” Iris clutched the clothing in her arms to her chest, ducking behind the screen, while Vasalisa let out a warning growl. Julian rushed to his sister. 

“Pasha, what is it? What’s wrong?” He grasped her shoulders as she gasped, regaining her breath.

“Milady...Nadia...they took her...arrested her...” 

Asra shot out of his seat, and Iris’s magic sparked in her veins; without her bidding, the fine cloth swirled around her as her magic took over, slipping the gauzy white off-the-shoulder top with flowing peasant sleeves over her shoulders, the blue and purple striped flared pants over her hips. 

Julian’s knuckles tightened against Portia’s shoulders. “ _Što? Zašto?_ ” He asked quietly as Iris rushed out, dressed now; Asra’s hand instinctively found the small of her back, his stance protective. He felt whatever it was that prickled at the back of Iris’s neck, like ozone in the air before the split of lightning, the terror of thunder; Iris thought of the **Tower** card, the one she drew just last night. 

Tears were spilling down Portia’s cheeks now as she flung her arms around her brother’s shoulders. “For the Count’s murder...” She sobbed. “And they’re charging you and Asra too...I had to warn you...” 

“What?” Iris exclaimed, her gaze swinging wildly from Julian to Asra to Portia. “On what grounds?” 

Portia laughed now, darkly. “They don’t need grounds. They’ve always done whatever they want.” With a gasp, she pulled herself together. “You have to get out of here before….” 

Pounding, jarring, insistent, on the slatted door; a bored, chilly voice rose up from behind the painted wood. “Open up, by the power vested in me as the Consul of the Vesuvian Aristocrata.” Iris steeled; they were too late.

Portia gritted her teeth, and pulled her keys from her bosom before forcing them into Iris’s hands. Iris’s brow furrowed in confusion, but she quickly met Portia’s gaze; the guard would take her keys away. Thinking quickly, Iris transfigured the keyring into a necklace, a choker with several dangling key-shaped charms, which she tied quickly around her neck. 

Asra cast a ward around the five of them, tightening his grip on Iris’s waist, as Julian pulled Portia away from the door; it burst into splinters, the wooden shards bouncing like confetti off the ward as guards swarmed the room. They were fearsome, eyes darkened with kohl and armed with short kilij sabers, all flanking Valerius, dressed in his full Consulate regalia, a large shamshir sheathed across his narrow hips. Iris was a little shocked that he wasn’t balancing a full wineglass between his pallid fingers.

Her magic arced through her body, crackling visibly from her fingertips; besides her, Asra was sparkling, too, his aura radiating of him, smoky and ominous. Julian shoved a protesting Portia behind him as he drew the long knife, secreted in the folds of his surplice shirt, brandishing it in front of him easily. At their feet, Vasalisa growled, her hackles raised as she stood protectively in front of the four humans, her muscles tensed, ready to spring.

“Now, now,” Valerius crooned. “There’s no need for any of that. In fact, it will make this much worse for all of you.” 

“What is the meaning of this, Valerius?” Iris said quietly, her voice choked with scorn. None of them dropped their protections. 

The consul’s lip curled. “Silence, whore. This has nothing to do with you.” His gaze swung to Asra, and to Julian. “And everything to do with the men you’re fucking...or should I say, cucking?” 

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Julian jeered, his lips twisting up into a sneer. At his side, Asra laughed darkly. 

“Valerius, you never were one for appreciating irony. At least Iris isn’t sleeping with married men.” Asra’s brow twisted up playfully, and Iris let her smile stretch into one of derision as she laughed darkly, the puzzle pieces falling together. 

“Ooo, that’s juicy...fucking your way to the top, hmm, Valerius?” She taunted him. 

“Silence!” He roared, his face red. “Ilya Nikolyavitch Devorak and Asra Salim Niraj-Alnazar, you are under arrest for collusion in the death of Count Lucio. Your trial will take place at noon tomorrow. You will both be charged with the Countess Nadia Aditi Satrinava. Take them away!” 

The guards descended; Asra and Julian shot quick glances at each other – without saying a word, both dropped their hands, Julian sheathing his knife while Asra gave Iris a reassuring squeeze on her back, dropping down the ward. She sneered, but let her hands fall to her sides; Vasalisa’s gentle growl died in her throat, replaced with a soft, defeated whine.

“There’s no need. We’ll come willingly.” Asra said quietly, and the guards hesitated; Iris saw sweet Bludmila and Ludovico, the drunk, amongst them. 

Valerius tsked. “Unfortunately, the chains are necessary. Especially with yours and the doctor’s reputations for being...slippery.” 

Iris’s stomach clenched as the iron fetters were placed around Asra’s and Julian’s wrists, though gently, by Bludmila, his gaze approaching something like apology. Lips trembling, she threw her arms around Julian’s shoulders and kissed him, before burying her face in his shoulder. 

“The library.” He whispered into her ear. “Find the book, the dungeon. But please, Iris…be careful down there. Cover your nose – your mouth – and don’t touch anything if you can help it. If anything happened to you...” 

She nodded furiously against his neck as his voice trailed off; she understood. He kissed the sweet skin behind her ear, the muscles of his neck and shoulders rippling gently against her. Hesitantly, she unloosed her grip from him, and turned to Asra, crying fully now. He shushed her gently, his voice like the sound of the sea, as she wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him close, kissing him.

“All will be well.” He said quietly to her. “I believe in you. Find the book in the library, and look for rituals involving any kind of astral projection, or swapping bodies.” 

“Which book is it? What is it called?” She asked urgently, as a guard firmly grasped Asra’s shoulders, pulling them roughly away from each other. 

“Look for the mark of the bargain.” He said, a little louder, gripping her wrist once as he was wrenched away. At their side, Portia wailed in frustration as Julian was pulled out of her arms, stumbling a little on his long legs. Without ceremony, they were whisked out of the room, both of them glancing back at Iris over their shoulders. Asra’s eyes were calm, but sorrowful; Julian couldn’t keep dread from contorting his sharp features as they were escorted away in chains. 

Valerius, his expression smug, turned to Portia now. “The keys, if you will, handmaid.”

Portia shrugged dramatically. “What keys?” 

Valerius’s angular face twisted into a disgusted sneer and his hand rose; with a flash of pearl-scattered light, Iris wrapped her fingers around his wrist, her strength shattering. 

“If you try to touch her again, I’ll break your wrist, you disgusting coward.” Iris growled, Vasalisa snapping her jaws at Valerius with a ferocious bark. The remaining guards lurched forward, but Iris let go of his wrist with a flourish. 

He snorted loudly, angry, embarrassed; he turned back to Portia, sneering wildly. “I’ll ask you again – where are the keys?” 

“I submitted them to the keymaster after the Countess was arrested, as is protocol.” Portia said firmly, though she couldn’t keep her shoulders from shaking. 

The Consul’s eyes darted to and fro over their faces, before heaving a frustrated sigh. “Very well then.” He turned to Iris, his gaze icy, imperious. “I hope that you have prepared your arguments, little witch. It shall be you who will represent the Countess and your…friends, at court tomorrow.” 

Iris scowled. “That doesn’t give me much time, does it?” 

Valerius chuckled darkly. “I’ve heard you’re very resourceful.” He turned on his heel and left the room, the remaining guards filing behind him silently. 

When the mangled door slid shut on its track, Iris realized she was shaking, her hands trembling, tears rushing back to her eyes. She sank to her knees with a painful thud.

“Fuck that righteous asshole! I hope the next time he cums his dick flies off!” Portia hissed. Iris tried, unsuccessfully, to wipe her tears away, before wrapping her arms around Portia, who was, despite her ire, sobbing beside her. They held each other for several minutes, overwhelmed by what just happened, their bodies trembling with fear; Vasalisa nosed her way into their laps, whining softly, compassionately. It was Portia who finally pulled back, with a dramatic sniff. 

“We don’t...we don’t have time to wallow. We have to work fast.” She said, dotting her face with a handkerchief she pulled from her bosom, her voice wavering. “I just don’t know where to start.” 

“I do.” Iris said firmly, sitting back on her heels. “We have enough evidence to prove, at the very least, that Julian is innocent...” She reached for Vasalisa now, stroking the wolf’s face. “We need Muriel for the trial. Can you find him and bring him back here?” Vasalisa whined, but rubbed her face against Iris’s hand, before her husky voice reached the magician’s ears. 

_I’ll find him._

“Thank you.” Iris whispered, dropping a kiss onto her familiar’s nose. With a loving lick of Iris’s face, Vasalisa took off, darting gracefully out of the room; Iris felt another deep ache in her heart, the same as when Julian and Asra were torn away from her, but she didn’t have time to sit with the pain now. 

“The library.” Iris said quietly. “What we need is in the library.” 

Portia’s eyes twinkled. “Perfect. My keys, please.” 

Iris took the choker off from her neck, and let the magic fall away, revealing the implausibly heavy key ring. Without a word, Portia stood and grabbed Iris’s hand; Iris grabbed her satchel and swung it onto her back as they rushed through the mangled door, stealing furtive glances up and down the hallway, ensuring their path was clear. Portia rushed headlong into the wall before them; Iris made to jerk away, to protect herself from impact, but they passed as easily through the stone as if it was water. They found themselves in the back of the cavernous library. 

Iris shook her head, disbelieving, while Portia smirked besides her. “It’s called a specter key. As long as you hold it, you can pass through certain portals, like a ghost.” She showed her the key on the ring, spun of the palest platinum, almost ethereally thin. “Another Prakran invention. They are quite clever machinists, those Prakrans. It shows – the emperor and empress doors to this library were designed by Nadia herself.” 

Iris started. “That’s amazing. They’re marvelous.” 

Portia flushed a little, with pride. “It’s not very well-known, the Countess’s aptitude with machina and locks. But she designed many of these passageways, and many of the engineering marvels in this palace. Clocks, revolving stairwells, secret passageways, doors…” 

Iris smiled, but placed her hand on Portia’s elbow. “Let’s talk about this later, Portia.” 

“Oh, right...right.” Portia snapped back to reality. “What do we need in the library?” 

Iris pressed her lips together. “Two things...we need to locate a book and a way to the dungeons.” Her wide eyes flitted to Portia’s. “Do you know anything of a secret passageway to the dungeons from here?” 

Portia shook her head quickly, her hands folded in front of her. “I don’t know of any way to the dungeons. I know of them...but the passageways themselves are lost to all of the palace staff. None of us were privy to the space where the doctors worked during the plague.” She swallowed. “That was on the Quaestor’s orders.” 

“Fuck.” Iris hissed, burying her knuckles in her lips. “Then...then I should look for the door. And you should look for the spellbook.” She looked around, wildly, for paper, her eyes falling on the notepad on Asra’s old desk; she grabbed it, and a soft graphite-tipped pencil; slowly, carefully, she drew the mark of the bargain, the circle, the nestled sigil-points, the long, star-ended tails pointing north and south. She handed the drawing to Portia. 

“This is the mark of a bargain struck with the Arcana. Asra said to look for it.” Iris bit her lip. “It might be on the cover, on the spine, somewhere. I don’t know. Start with the spellbooks, or any research books gathered during the plague, if they’re sorted that way. Anything that may relate to the Arcana.” Iris sighed with frustration. “I don’t even know if it’s here, but...we have to try.” 

Portia took the drawing from Iris, her brows furrowed. “Nadia’s sent me to gather books from here before, so I’m familiar with the library. But...never with a description like this.” She squinted at the drawing now. “Not to mention...this is not a great drawing...” 

Iris rolled her eyes, but she knew it was true; her lines were unsteady and crooked, the circles lopsided. She was reminded of the many times Asra had tried to teach her to draw, to see and to balance, but she had no patience for it. “I know, I’m not Julian or Asra. But it’s the best I can do.” 

Portia shrugged. “Circle back here in an hour?” Iris nodded, and Portia rushed off, disappearing between the towering bookshelves. 

Iris was alone now; she felt the painful tug at her heart as the distance between her and Vasalisa increased, though she could see her familiar in her mind’s eye, now racing through the forest, the frost crackling under her paws, her heart racing with exhilaration. Iris ached as she remembered all the times Asra left Faust with her. Did it get easier as time wore on? She thought of every time she had been apart from Asra, from Julian...it probably never got easier, she realized leaving a piece of your heart behind, even if it was with someone you trusted to care for it. 

From the satchel at her back, there was a stirring, and Faust poked her lavender head out from under the leather flap, fixing her unblinking red eyes on Iris as her tongue flitted over the young magician’s skin. Iris let out a grateful cry as the familiar curled her body around Iris’s shoulders – she pulled the snake down into her arms, where she burrowed her muscular little body into the magician’s blouse, practically humming with an ambivalent alchemy of comfort and apprehension. 

“Faust...” Iris whispered. “Can you reach Asra? Is he okay? Is he with Julian?” 

Faust’s little eyes went dark for a moment, but as soon as she returned, a sorrow surged through Iris’s body. 

_Damp...dark...alone…_

Iris grimaced, her heart tightening in her chest; they were already in the dungeons, and it sounded as if they had been separated. She wanted to cry, but she clutched the familiar closer to her body instead. “Tell Asra I love him.” She whispered to Faust, who responded immediately. 

_Knows…feels. Loves._

With a sigh, ducking down to plant a soft kiss between the snake’s eyes, Iris faced the glorious stained-glass window, the desks dotted underneath it. She found the two in the nook, framed under another small stained-glass window; they were still largely undisturbed, save for the scars in the dust from where Iris herself had removed things. 

She sat in Julian’s desk chair for the first time, seeing what he saw when he was working, the tall stacks of books, unreturned, some still laying flat on their spines, the landscape-sprawl of notebooks and papers. She could feel the echoes of his warmth in the seat of the chair underneath her, the soft pulsing of his tender presence in the worn wood. Iris took a deep breath, and centered herself, before placing her hands on the smoothed edge of the desk, her fingers finding dust, tracing the edges of his loose notes, scrawled scrollwork. She sighed as she let what lingered of him wash over her, intelligent and gentle, passionate, warm…

Something tugged at her, and, without opening her eyes, she let the compulsion pull a hand forward, onto a whorling knot in the wood near the top of the desk, under the shelf that groaned with books; her fingers traced it, and it rolled under her touch before sliding away, revealing a secret hiding place. Out tumbled a key, a large one, heavy in Iris’s palm. Her eyes flew open, and her heart fluttered with excitement, coursed with anxiety; it was large, oily and black, with a jeweled red eye set into the key’s base, the sclera of garnet, the iris and pupil of glittering onyx, just like that of a plague victim. 

Wrinkling her nose in concentration, she reached into her satchel, into the secret pocket where she had stowed Lucio’s trophies. She had given the spider key to Muriel (she felt she no longer had a use for it), but she still had the necklace, the ring, the brooch and…

Her fingers wrapped around the tiny key at the bottom of the pocket. It was just like the heavy key in her other palm, but half the size: same metal, same garnet, same thrumming uncertainty. Both keys pulsed gently in Iris’s hands; the larger key whispered to her, urgently. She closed her fingers around it and focused, the warmth surging forward from it overwhelming her as she fell backwards into a memory. 

_Even in the deadly still of the library, it was noisy. From the barely cracked windows, Iris could hear the lilt of stupid arpeggios from the fragrant, just-spring garden; the raucous hubbub from the First Flowers party Lucio insisted on was mere meters from her as she curled, shaking, in the tiny nook in her secret corner of the library._

_But she sat in Julian’s desk now, her face buried in her arms, the gentle, lingering scent of him soothing her as her heart pounded in her fingertips, her toes, in every screaming nerve as she shook; at least here, no one could see her, no one could hear her, not even Julian. She tried, she tried, to take the deep breaths that had been instilled in her since she’d had her first panic attack, her heart exploding in her chest like a solar flare; but still, she couldn’t calm herself, her tears still coming, still coming, over and over again as her heart refused to settle._

_A rustle of something, so soft, so gentle, that Iris barely heard it; still, she startled, wheeling around in the hard-backed chair, her mascara beading dark against her long lashes, trailing black on her cheeks as she tried to smear them away. She was certain it was a porter, searching for her in a panic as her call-time approached, but she was surprised to find a fantastical figure, a resplendent middle-aged woman swathed in sky-black gauze, a wide, immensely flounced collar around her shoulders, nipping in at her waist. Her hair, black at the roots, white-blonde at the tips, swirled around the nape of her neck in ornate, looping braids, her crown ringed in black orchids, only belied her cold eyes, lined with age._

_For a moment, their eyes met, wide, wild, startled; then, the Consul’s dusk-dark eyes hardened. “What are you doing here, fool?” She hissed, voice low and silky with practice, with persuasion. Iris straightened, surreptitiously adjusting the low neckline of her plunging dress, the massive white agate that sat against her collarbone, the silk rosettes that ringed it._

_“This is my mentor’s desk; I’m composing myself before my performance.” Iris’s voice was low, and even. “I could ask you the same question.”_

_The Consul did not hide her displeasure, the rise of her thick, dark brow, the strange, tense coil of her small body. “I do not have to explain myself to you.” Her voice was haughty, even if the deep furrow of her brows betrayed her. “But I am in need of a record.”_

_Iris chuckled softly, just once, before standing. “You’re a terrible liar for a lawyer, Consul.” She murmured, her amused smirk insufferable. “The party’s in full swing; I’m not sure how you slipped out of Lucy’s sights. What’s so pressing you couldn’t send an aide?” Iris was very familiar with the aides that scurried, scrambled, through the library in the daylight hours, frantic with frenzied purpose. The lady Consul was not one to keep waiting._

_She scowled now. “You are far too familiar for one of your station, fool.” The Consul hissed. “I will not tolerate insubordination.”_

_Iris raised an eyebrow now. “You’re rather testy tonight, aren’t you?” She murmured, almost to herself. “Perhaps I should sing of the way that you enchant Lucy? How you tie him to his bed with silks and make him beg for release, mark him with your lips?” She mused, her sweet voice acid. “I’ve seen the bruises on his neck. He wears them with pride. He loves the way you use him for your gain.” Iris’s smile was wicked now. “What a scandal it would cause. I wonder how long it would take for your husband to hear of it, halfway across the world running his trade empire. I wonder what Nero would think. He’s here tonight, isn’t he? He could hear firsthand what kind of woman Consul Valerius really is.”_

_The sound that the Consul made was violent, a steady, threatening hiss as she approached Iris with the fluidity of a cobra. “You wouldn’t dare, witch.”_

_“Oh.” Iris giggled. “I would, Treasa. It would be so, so easy.”_

_The Consul’s sneer was dangerous, venomous, as she regarded Iris; then, with a frustrated sigh, she threw up her hands in surrender. “If you insist on knowing, perhaps you can help me. Where are the dungeons?”_

_Iris blanched, surprised. “The dungeons, Consul?”_

_The expression the Consul wore was strange – her black-painted lips set in a thin line, her brows pinched, the surreptitious smoothing of her collar. “I have...concerns about the Quaestor’s methods, and the lack of progress with the cure. I wish to examine the research laboratories for my own purposes. But they will not grant me access, and Lucio and the other members of the Chamber are of no help. Nadia knows nothing.” Her eyes flew up to Iris’s now. “But you...you know where it is. Surely Devorak has brought you down with him.”_

_Iris could feel the sharp boil in her stomach again, the tightness in her chest. “You want to visit the dungeons, Consul?” She whispered, her voice small. “On your own? You’re third in line for the seat. Doctors die every day down there. Juli...Doctor Devorak won’t even let us down there. His apprentices.” _

_The Consul’s eyes flashed. “Do not parrot the Quaestor’s insipid arguments back to me. If you know of how to get to the dungeons, show me. That is an order. Or are you going to cry again?” Her thin lips lifted into the tiniest smirk, and Iris smarted; she had forgotten, for a moment, about her eyes, red, puffy, her stained cheeks._

_She took a deep breath, her eyes fluttered closed, urging her heartbeat to slow. “I do not take orders from you, Consul.” Iris whispered, but still, she turned; her small fingers found the hidden knot in the wood, turning it deftly, revealing the heavy key._

_With a rustle of her snow-white silks, Iris crossed the library, the Consul trailing behind her in her billowing black gauze; an unassuming bookshelf on the far wall, a practiced motion so quick that Iris almost missed it – a tug on the spines of three books in quick succession, one red, one of leather, one black with illegible gold lettering. The bookshelf swung open on a bolt in its middle, revealing a rough shale hallway, drafty and rancid-smelling._

_Iris’s eyes were deadly serious as she turned to the shocked Consul, passing the heavy key into her palm. “This opens the gate to the elevator. Pull the lever, then open the eye. Wear a mask and leather gloves from the anteroom.” Her appraising gaze slid over the Consul’s dress. “And one of the coats. Touch nothing. Promise me.”_

_The Consul chuckled. “I never thought you one to be so concerned for my safety, witch.”_

_“I’m serious, Treasa.” Iris hissed. “I’ll not have your blood on my hands. But...” She paused, choosing her words very carefully. “If anyone can stop Valdemar, it’s you. This madness has to end.”_

_The Consul’s eyes flashed. “That doesn’t bode well. What’s down there?”_

_“Hell.” She whispered, eyes hard. “The gates of hell.” She couldn’t suppress a shudder. “They...they tried to stop it. Julian. The other doctors. They’re not to blame, Consul. Please remember that.”_

_“I will.” The Consul’s voice was grave now, her gaze pensive as she paused. “Thank you, Iris.”_

_“Don’t thank me yet.” Iris retorted darkly. “Thank me when you come back without the plague.”_

_The Consul snorted once, haughtily, as she slipped between the shelves. “Oh, and Iris...break a leg tonight. That folk song remains one of my favorites. My regards to you and the doctor.” And she faded into the darkness, humming._

_“We’ve all traded lovers and woke up alone, and we clapped for the king though our fingers were cold...”_

_The bookshelf slammed shut behind her._

The cold misted over Iris as she returned, prickling the skin of her arms; the key weighed heavily, ominously in her palm. She stood, and crossed to the bookshelf from the memory, and located the three books on the shelf, right at her eye level, and pulled them out by their spines – red, worn leather, black with gold. Each book caught in her hand right before she was able to remove them, held in place by some magical tether...

There was a creaking groan of wood as Iris sprung back; after a moment of protest, the bookshelf swung around, revealing a dark, dank hallway. The stench that rose to Iris’s nostrils made her want to retch; it was the smell of death, masked over many times with bleach, with bitter medicinal herbs, with bleak, unending hopelessness. 

Remembering Julian’s warning, Iris magicked a scarf from the ether and wrapped it around her nose and mouth, muffling the smell only a little. With a tremble, Faust poking her head out from the neckline of her blouse, she crossed the threshold and cast an orb of orange light just as the bookshelf swung shut behind her. 

The darkness was oppressive, thick and unctuous; Iris had to bolster her light for it to not sputter out. The narrow, stone-lined hallway soon gave way to a set of winding, uneven stairs that took Iris down, down, down until they spilled into a cavernous hall. The scene that painted itself in front of Iris as she cast her gentle light around made her heart stop; Faust let out a soft hiss, sensing the tension in Iris’s chest. 

It was a small, mechanical elevator, only large enough for one or two to fit in the cage, its ornate wrought-iron doors oily and black with grime and rust, the metal twisted into sinister, clawing spirals. It was clear to Iris that it hadn’t been used in years, probably not since the plague had dissipated. But what shook Iris was the ominous light that flooded the elevator from above, a glowing, jewel-like red that pulsated and skittered across the jagged stonework beyond the iron bars. 

As Iris approached, she saw the gate was locked; a large keyhole was set into a small plaque on the lift’s gate, ominous, looping script bearing a grim inscription: _This goes beyond me, beyond you. We are just happy to serve._

Anxiety snaked long fingers down Iris’s back, and she was unable to suppress the shudder that shook her. This was all so achingly familiar; whispers of memories swirled in the back of her mind, which she quieted for now. She did not need her intuition or her clairvoyance to tell her that what was at the bottom of this elevator was sinister and horrifying; she remembered the feeling of standing in front of this horrible gate before, the dread that filled her, the panic.

The larger of the two keys hummed in her hand; she held it up, and the garnet eye glimmered, sullen, in the low light of her orb. With a look of grim determination, she touched the plaque; the magic that radiated from it was dark, menacing.

Iris squared her shoulders, and let the key slip into the lock; she barely had to turn it, the teeth chittering against the pins as the mechanism sprang open. With an earsplitting shriek of rusted metal, the elevator door creaked and slid away on its rollers. 

Heart pounding, she stepped into the elevator; against the farthest wall was a lever, which Iris pressed down, the weight of her shoulder, her back, without hesitation. Another unearthly shriek of rusted metal, and the inner doors swung shut, the cage shuddering as it lowered itself on an intricate tangle of pulleys and groaning chains as the red light receded above her like a helpless, dying eye closing.

After what felt like a lurching eternity in that dark shaft, the lift settled at another pair of gates that swung open with another soul-rending creak. This hallway was earthen, supported with stone buttresses, fragrant roots splicing the packed dirt ceiling. The floor was uneven, but the hallway wasn’t long; in front of Iris loomed a metal door, the same twisted, spiraling claws, and one enormous, oblong object, the matte metal gleaming dully in the low light. There was no doorhandle, but Iris’s hands knew what to do; she let her fingertips trace the shape, lift the metal sheath; underneath was a garnet eye with an obsidian pupil, ringed with a gray moonstone iris that reminded her, achingly, of Julian’s plagued eye. 

With no ceremony, the door swung open, leading her into the macabre dressing room. Her gaze swung around, wild knowledge arcing through her, as she crossed the room and found a hook with a doctor’s cloak, white but stained with smears of ink and blood, small leather gloves, and a beaked plague mask, stuff with now-stale lavender, sage, and camphor. 

She shrugged the cloak over her shoulders, Faust squirming to see over it as she wrapped the fastenings around her torso; the cool, waxy cloth felt familiar over her skin, and it fit her perfectly. She pulled the mask over her nose and mouth, again, formed as if for her features only; the herbs helped immensely to block the fetid, rancid smell that now burned Iris’s eyes. The pit in her stomach tightened. She pulled on the gloves and pushed through the final metal door.

What Iris found there made her want to vomit; she expected the dungeons to be gruesome, but not this gruesome. There were rows and rows of wooden and metal tables, all bolted to the scrubbed stone floor, each crossed over and over with worn leather restraints, metal fetters on heavy chains at the table’s corners. In the center was a raised, circular wooden stage that held another two tables; the floor of the operating theatre was practically stained red, the wood soaked over and over with blood that even the strongest bleach could not scour. 

One wall was covered in shelves of neatly labeled jars of poultices, creams, and tinctures, along with tools and bowls and towels, freshly laundered cloaks. On the opposite wall was a row of wooden doors, with bars set across the small windows at eye height; repurposed cells, used to hold the living while they waited for vivisection. Or Death. 

She approached the row of doors, cautiously, Faust’s head bobbing under her chin; she gently ran her hands over the worn wood of one that called to her, then pulled back as if burned. Julian’s energy, his aura, warm and red and impassioned, surged through her. She peered through the bars, spying a small cot, hardly enough room for a single body, a miniscule desk with one long drawer, a simple chair, and a few shelves, lined with jars of long-dead leeches. The feeling that flooded over Iris confused her; it was oddly peaceful, familiar, his own tiny oasis in the midst of chaos, of horror, but it was also imbued with the frantic energy of the very sick, the delirious, the desperate. 

Without even trying the door’s handle, Iris pulled the second, smaller key out of her pocket and inserted it to the keyhole; this one took no more coaxing then the first, gliding smoothly in and easily turning against the pins, the lock clicking open triumphantly. Iris’s hands shook slightly as she palmed the door open. 

The first thing Iris noticed about the room was that the air was not nearly as wretched-smelling, definitely stale and dusty, but somehow almost pleasant; her eyes fell on a small vase on the desk, filled with cedar shavings, rosemary, and dried altansarnai rose petals, all still faintly fragrant. The desk was lined with books, some now moldering in the damp, and scattered with papers that were absolutely covered in notes and drawings; at one point, the inkwell was knocked over, soaking through one leaf of paper completely, a pocket of oblivion. 

Iris cast out her magic, desperate for anything that could help her. If Julian were with her, something, anything in this room could trigger his memories. She might be able to access those memories, too, but she had to work harder for it, and she had to work fast. 

Her magic pooled in two spots, shimmering like miasma before her; the first drew her to the far wall, where a faint chalk outline could be seen, stretching taller than herself, probably as tall as Julian. The details had long faded with dust and neglect, but Iris would recognize the shape anywhere – the mark of the bargain. 

Iris’s brows furrowed as she traced the outline carefully with the tips of her fingers; there was a very faint pulse of magic left there, but not enough for Iris to sniff out its source. She knew that Julian had been locked in this cell while he was sick; in his delirium, had he tried to summon one of the Arcana? Her gut twisted, and a choked cry rose up in her dry throat; she couldn’t imagine his fear, his desperation, as he clung to his last thread of life while just outside of the walls that confined him, more and more were dying each day.

She turned now to the second place her magic pulled her, a haphazard pile of books on the floor. At the top of the towering pile was a thick and heavy tome laying on its spine, the pages furiously annotated, stained with ink, dogeared. Iris picked it up, flipping it over to read the title; her heart iced over. The charcoal-gray cover was emblazoned with a silver mark of the bargain, filling the entire leatherbound cover; coiled in the mark, miniscule script read _The Arcana: Rituals, Summons, and Covenants_.

She flipped feverishly through the pages, sinking to her knees on the damp, uneven floor. Julian’s familiar sloping script covered the margins, sections underlined, sketches on the flyleaves, the blank spaces between chapters. As she flipped, Iris could make out reoccurring words and phrases – fever dream, portent, raven, delirious – as well as notes on his own condition, temperatures and vitals, self-prescribed alms and treatments. 

At her chin, Faust bobbed. _Asra book?_

Iris stared down at the book, pausing her flipping, the pieces slotting together. “Do you recognize this book, Faust?” She asked quietly, bringing it closer to the familiar. The snake flickered her tongue out, smelling it curiously. 

_Asra book, smells like tall friend._

“Of course.” Iris said quietly; she could feel the gentle thrum of Asra’s magic in the book now, almost completely masked by Julian’s wild, delirious energy. She flipped faster, until the reached a page where a leaf of sketching paper had been inserted facedown. Gently, Iris flipped the sketch over, and gasped in shock. 

The sketch was unlike anything she had ever seen of Julian’s – what were normally soft lines, delicate, observant shadows, were now frenetic slashes of ink, repeated over and over so they seemed to vibrate and jitter on the page, making Iris almost dizzy. In some places, he had pressed so hard with his pen-nib that he had sliced through the delicate paper. But even in his delirium, Julian’s skill was impressive, and the likeness he struck was unmistakable: a raven-headed man, winged arms flung downward as he was suspended from his ankle, his ribs and stomach bowing as he hanged, one eye glittering as his face struck an ominous profile. 

Iris reached for her own deck and summoned the Hanged Man card to her hand – a bat suspended in sleep, his wings wrapped around his body protectively, his red eyes watchful – but the card refused to speak for her, offering no guidance...no. Waiting for her to find the answer on her own. Waiting for her to address that which she had been ignoring.

Had Julian seen the Hanged Man in a dream? Had he used the last of his strength to summon the Arcana to him? If he was close to Death...it was possible, even without a lick of magic in his bones. Especially if, like Asra had said before, he had a connection with the Hanged Man, like Asra’s to the Magician, or Nadia’s to the High Priestess..

She removed the drawing and continued to flip through the pages, her eyes scanning the text furiously now, until she came to the final chapter; the Fool. There were not many rituals to thumb through, the Fool being particularly nebulous and unreachable, even more so than the Hanged Man, or Death, but when she reached the final ritual of the book – the longest, the most complicated – her heart stopped cold. 

_Borrowing the Fool’s Body: Cure the Sick, Heal the Crippled, and Resurrect the Dead._

In her ear, Iris heard the soft rustling of feathers: of gentle, all-knowing laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: For the Tori Amos fans playing along at home...who is the Cornflake girl? Tell me your thoughts in the comments.
> 
> See you in Justice 2.


	2. Justice, Part 2: Sparing My Neck From Their Chain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Radiohead - There, There // Elder Island - I Fold You**
> 
> _CW: Domestic violence_

Portia made quick work of searching the library, vastness aside – the shelves were arranged by discipline, in order to aid the researchers during the time of the plague, and secretly, Portia had familiarized herself with the entire library over the years, locating books to read for the Countess as she slept, and to read for herself. Though she was much more likely to pick through the library’s (impressive and inexplicable) selection of bodice rippers, she was familiar enough with the magicka section. Even with Iris’s vague directions, the crudely drawn symbol, even after making certain to check the ancient tomes section, she knew that the book they were looking for was not there. 

Portia bit her lip, frustrated, and paced a ring on the lush Rostam carpet, the gears whirling as she looked for her next move. There was a reputable tomeseller deep in the Southside who had located obscure books for Portia before, at the Countess’s request, but not at this notice (Portia could hear his balking, his flamboyant whining, in her ear already). Even if she sent Kidlat, their fastest courier (and most discreet, bless them), she didn’t know if they would get it back in time for the trial. There was the mage who specialized in magicka texts in the Scholar’s district, but that wizened old bat could hardly brew a cup of tea for herself anymore, let alone locate a rare text on a moment’s notice. Other than that, it was the sharp-eyed fence in the red market, Satomi, who it seemed could get her hands on anything – and Portia had brought her some _very_ specific requests before – but with the Countess’s coffers frozen, there was no way Portia would have the pentacles for it at this point. 

The tomeseller it would have to be. With a decisive nod of her head, Portia rushed out into the hallway, only to run headfirst into a procession of four brilliant Prakran Princesses, stumbling into the firm, muscled arms of the tallest, the golden-clad Nahara. 

“Portia. It pleases me to see you again. We were just looking for you.” Nahara smiled privately, their eyes meeting for a beat too long, and Portia flushed furiously. She averted her eyes to the other Princesses, hoping the preternaturally observant women didn’t notice her embarrassment (they did), her gaze falling on the newcomer, the smallest of all of them, short and spry. With her electric blue hair braided and piled atop her head, her dark navy lipstick, her cyan eyeshadow, and her lush traditional Prakran dress in tones of blue, gold, and coral, she struck an unforgettable image, just like the rest of her sisters. And then, she opened her mouth. 

“Where the _fuck_ is that _insipid_ motherfucker?” She growled, her heart-shaped face contorted into a scowl. “He always was a conniving, sniveling little bitch, even in our Juris 1 classes, but I never thought he’d grow the spine to do something like _this_.”

Nahara cleared her throat, but the unnamed Princess only raised a dark, arched eyebrow. “This is Portia, of whom we were telling you – she is Didi’s most trusted handmaiden.” Nahara said quietly.

The blue-haired Princess extended her ring, and Portia bent to kiss it, dipping into a quick curtsy. “I am Natiqa, the sixth Princess of Prakra, and the Prakran ambassador to Vesuvia.” Said the Princess. “I also have the unfortunate displeasure of being jurismates with our esteemed friend the Consul...” She sighed heavily now. “The _dumb_ fuck.” 

It was Nasmira who spoke now, placing a gentle hand on the youngest Princess’s shoulder. “Natiqa and Consul Valerius studied together at the Prakran school of law.” She gestured gently with her head, and all five of them turned down the hall, towards Nadia’s wing. 

It was clear to Portia that all of Nadia’s present sisters were flustered by the day’s events, but she was shocked to see how differently they reacted: Nahara’s expression was neutral, cool but her posture betrayed her agitation, her back ramrod stiff, her shoulders tense; Navra was full of frenetic energy, biting at her fingernails and playing with her hair, twirling the chains and cords of the jewels around her neck; Nasmira seemed calm, but radiated concern and apprehension from every pore, her brows cinched perpetually. And Natiqa…

“His chain of events doesn’t make any _godsdamned_ sense, he hasn’t presented any evidence to the Juris, he hasn’t provided any of the accused with proper consul. Vesuvian law is the fucking wild west compared to Prakra, but with this new law, it is crystal _fucking_ clear that you cannot charge anyone without reliable evidence, and you can’t just fucking _make_ someone represent themselves in court, or be represented by someone with _no experience in law_...”

Nahara ushered their small party into one of Nadia’s private receiving rooms, where Navra immediately flounced to the window and began to pace. Nasmira sank onto the chaise, one hand over her heart, the other cradling her forehead while Nahara stood guard at the door. Portia steepled her hands patiently as Natiqa hovered before the bar. Though it couldn’t yet be noon, the Princess grabbed the emerald neck of a bottle of Islay Lach a’Mhuilinn and poured herself a generous two fingers of the amber liquid. 

“Portia, my esteemed sisters have been very impressed with you since their arrival yesterday.” Natiqa said, her full lips twisting into a small smile as she sipped her drink. “It seems you hold our sister Didi’s trust, which is no easy feat – one that I would say that we, as her dear sisters, have not fully finessed.” Her eyes flitted to her three sisters, who all nodded in their ways.

Her gaze fell back to Portia. “I won’t mince words. If Nadia is found guilty tomorrow, she will hang. No one in this room wants that. Nor do we not want to see your brother hang, nor our friend of the court, the magician Asra. There is as little evidence for their involvement as there is for Didi’s, now that the Doctor’s confession has been struck. We need to know the Courtiers’ motives to move forward, and you have deemed yourself trustworthy, so I suggest we all work together towards our shared goal. Can you tell us anything that can point us in the right direction? If we can discredit the Courtiers’ accusations, the people may be swayed. The Juris may even be convinced to discard the case.” 

Portia furrowed her brows. “Even with Praetor Vlastomil presiding?” 

Natiqa scoffed. “You’re sharp. Yes. With a trial involving treason, all 9 of the Juris must be present to ensure impartiality, myself included, though Valerius will be acting as the city’s Consul, levying the charges. This how I came to know of this situation, when I was notified that my presence was needed tomorrow to preside over _my own sister’s fucking trial._ ” She heaved an exhausted sigh, her shoulders sloping dramatically. “We really need to get some fucking conflict of interest laws on the books. Wild fucking west, indeed.”

Portia considered what Natiqa was asking her, tapping her fingers against her freckled chin. “My interactions with the Courtiers are pretty limited, but I have helped Nadi – ahhhh, erm, Milady, entertain them before. From what I’ve seen...they don’t seem to get along, or to agree on anything at all. The simplest decisions, from what to eat for dinner to how to amuse themselves afterward, seems to break out into infighting.” Portia pursed her lips now. “It’s shocking to me that they’ve gotten their shit together enough to pull something like this off. It makes me think that the Consul is the one pulling the strings. Out of the five...he’s the most competent, by far, when he gets his head out of his wineglass.” 

Natiqa snorted now, taking another sip of her Lach a’Mhuilinn. “You speak plainly, and you don’t hold back; I like that. If Valerius really is the one in charge, that should make our job easy, then. Can you think of anything that could help us discredit them in court? Any instance at all?” 

Portia shook her head. “Nothing specific...” 

Natiqa frowned, considering this. “If you could think of specific instances, that would be ideal. We could bring you up as a character witness.” 

Portia let herself sink deep into her thoughts, trying to recall a particular memory that would be helpful. Her eyes roved the room, falling on a portrait of a seated woman in Abioye regalia, her afroed hair taking up most of the frame. Portia gasped, her eyes flying wide. 

“What if we used something from today? Would that help?” 

Natiqa’s eyes glittered. “It could be the linchpin in our case. Tell me more.”

*******

Portia and Natiqa crouched in a dank tunnel, the Ambassador’s sari wrapped around her knees to prevent the hem from dragging in the muck that lined the mossy stone floor. Their ears were pressed to the cool brick wall, and just as Portia had guessed, they were able to hear muffled voices, two in particular – the roar of Pontifex Vulgora, and the triumphant, half-drunk sneer of the Consul.

Portia put a finger to her lips in warning, and then quietly removed a brick, the edges hardly scraping against the crumbling grout. She gestured for the Princess to look through it, revealing two barely perceptible almond-shaped slits in canvas. Natiqa leaned into peer through the eyeholes, right into Nadia’s grandest receiving salon, the one filled with gilded instruments for entertaining. The view wasn’t perfect – it was clear whatever painting she was looking through, it was in a corner, but she could see the center of the room, and had a view of all five of the courtiers. 

At her side, Portia removed another brick much lower to the floor, no doubt another set of eyeholes cut out of another portrait, and untied the sash around her waist. She spread it out on the grimy floor and to lay on her stomach and look through the peephole without soiling her white servant’s uniform. 

Consul Valerius was standing in front of the massive window, a fresh glass of red wine swirling in his hand – he looked immensely irritated. Three of the courtiers, Volta, Vulgora, and Vlastomil, sat on the chairs and chaises around the gilded coffee table, and Valdemar stood at the farthest wall, hands steepled, expression inscrutable under their surgeon’s mask. 

It was Volta who spoke first. “Must we do this? Our Countess has done nothing to us.” Her watery eyes looked close to tears as she clutched her bony fingers to her face. 

The wax-skinned Praetor rolled his eyes. “The complexities of treason are not for the feeble-minded, Volta. Just do as you’re told.” 

Valerius sighed loudly and spun gracefully to survey the other Courtiers, wine swirling wildly in his glass. “Since Nadia awoke, our lives have become increasingly difficult. Procurator, is the Countess not forcing you to distribute your immense food stores to the needy?” 

Volta’s looked as if she’d been ripped in two. “But I like Countess Nadia! I am always so well-fed when I come to court!” 

From the corner, Valdemar made a quiet noise of disgust, but otherwise said nothing. 

Volta ignored them pointedly. “We don’t even have evidence for any of the accused. You are simply using this as an excuse to get whoever you can out of your way for when you become Count after the sweet Countess’s death!” 

The Consul sneered now. “We do not need further evidence, Volta. It is well-known that Nadia despised her husband, and no one seems to be able to provide an alibi for her whereabouts the night of the fire. It will be painfully easy to sow doubt in the simple minds of the public, and they are who we have to convince, not the Juris. As for the doctor, and the magician – they know too much, and are too close to Nadia, and that will be enough to send them to the gallows. If I could have accused the Fool, I would have, but nearly all of Vesuvia knows that she was not around that night, so we will have to dispose of her otherwise. Now, stick to the story, you vapid weasel, or I will see to it you are removed from your seat when I ascend. All of you.” 

He drained his wineglass, and placed it gently on the table by the window. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a trial to prepare for.” He flounced out of the salon, leaving the remaining four courtiers grumbling in his wake, before they shuffled out of the receiving room. 

Natiqa straightened, dusting off her sari, as she helped Portia to her feet. “Well that was...enlightening.” 

Portia nodded. “They’re preeeetty gossipy when they think no one’s listening. I figured we might be able to catch them with their pants down, but I didn’t think we’d catch them with their whole dicks wet, too.” 

Natiqa let out a startled laugh, her brows raised. “You are quite something. We should get a drink sometime.” 

Portia arched an eyebrow. “As long as it’s not Lach A’Mhuilinn, you’re on. I prefer that my drinks don’t taste like something used to tar the side of a ship.” 

Natiqa laughed again. “Perhaps a pint then.” She gestured for Portia to lead the way out of the secret passageway; as Portia bustled ahead, she wondered what Arcana gave her the ability to win over not one, but five Prakran Princesses.

*******

When Iris emerged from the bookshelf into the library, the massive gray tome slung under her arm, Portia was nowhere to be found. _Just as well,_ she thought as she stole through the bookshelves and slipped out the massive mechanical doors. Where she was going, she didn’t want Portia to follow. For her own sake.

She had read the ritual over and over on the damp floor of Julian’s cell until it was branded on her memory, until she thought her head would cleave in two from pain. She had never come across anything like it in her studies – 22 very specific guests with very specific roles, a veritable feast, each guest striking a bargain, a blood ritual, and finally, the drawing down of the Fool’s body...to be absolutely undisturbed, uninterrupted, for hours on end. The only place she could imagine this occurring was in Lucio’s wing. Something that was half-memory, half-intuition, whispered to her of a secret, private dining room, tucked deep into Lucio’s tower – a room she dined in several times in her past life. But how to find it now?

As if sleepwalking, she found herself standing at the foot of the stairs to Lucio’s wing with no recollection of guiding herself there, her magic tugging at her chest like the reins on a mare. Mercedes and Melchior stood guard, as always, but they whimpered and cowered as she mounted the marble stairs and passed them, her energy swirling ferociously around her as she marked her chest with the five-pointed star, then cleared her mind, marching down the hall to the Count’s abandoned bedchamber. 

Iris was shocked when she felt the soft, wet muzzle of one of of the dogs against the back of her hand; it was Mercedes, the female, her eyes soft and knowing. Iris’s heart ached; for a moment, she was reminded of Vasalisa. The bloodhound took a few steps in front of her and then threw her long snout over her shoulder, as if urging Iris to follow her; Iris obeyed, her magic making easy work of the locked door to the bedchamber. 

Mercedes scrambled through the doorframe, her long, gangly limbs flailing as she approached the massive portrait, snout wiggling, with Iris on her heels. Iris had expected to feel the familiar licks of heat on her neck, her back, her face, of Lucio’s oppressive presence, but she felt nothing; he was either hiding from her, or watching her intently from the shadows. In front of Iris, Mercedes whined and gently pawed at the canvas as if she were searching for the scent of her old master, before turning back to Iris and pointing to the corner of the portrait’s frame. 

“What is it, girl?” Iris whispered, her fingers tracing the thick gilded wood, at least several inches wide. The bloodhound butted Iris’s hand with her head toward the very corner of the frame, and Iris’s fingers fell on a slightly raised button on the bottom, barely indistinguishable from the frame’s edge; without hesitation, Iris pressed it firmly and stepped gracefully back. The wide painting groaned and swung open, revealing an arched stone doorway and a wide staircase, spiraling both up and down. 

Iris’s intuition whispered to her, and she bounded down the steps, Mercedes leaping ahead of her, high voice yelping, Faust’s head bobbing still from the collar of her shirt as the familiar clung to the magician’s shoulders. The further down she descended, the more she was overwhelmed by the cacophonous aromas of innumerable delectable foods, some that Iris had no name for, some that were achingly familiar. 

The stairs quickly leveled at a short anteroom, carmine-flamed candles flickering to life as Iris and Mercedes alighted on the landing. The hound growled, startling Iris, and clawed at her own nose; Iris realized the dog had been drooling, undoubtedly in anticipation of the foods she smelled, but now she sat stubbornly on her haunches and whined imploringly at Iris before laying down, both her front paws crossed over her snout. 

Iris’s hands shook as she cast a spell of abnegation, her stomach twisting now at the thought of the foods she smelled; she felt protection fall over her like a mist of cool, autumn rain. Whatever was in that room before her – whatever awaited her behind this door – she was not to be tempted by it. 

As Iris approached the threshold, the door swung open, untouched; she gasped. The room was sumptuously decorated in reds, golds, and rich mahogany wood; it was large enough for a modest dinner party, and the long, beautifully carved dining table was set with exactly 22 places, 10 on each side of the narrow table and one at each end. Each chair and setting was evenly spaced to the millimeter, each plate piled high with incredible delicacies, each setting customized for each guest – an extravagantly large porterhouse steak, dripping with pan juice; impossibly thin slices of raw fish in the Nipponese style, drizzled with a thin, dark, oily sauce; steamed mussels in a delicate white wine beurre blanc, served with crusty bread. 

As Iris circled the table, she saw a curious sight to the left of the head; the plate was piled with a food she was very familiar with, having prepared and eaten it several times. She approached cautiously, and felt the edges of her abnegation spell wavering – skewered blue-tongued skinks roasted over an open fire, their skins brown and black and crackling, still steaming, served with a mess of sauteed desert greens, a dish that Iris could never get quite right, despite Asra’s patient coaching. At the right, above the knife and spoon, was a cast-iron tea pot and cup, the smell as familiar to Iris as the smell of cinnamon and oranges – the smokey scent of lapsang suchong. 

These were Asra’s favorite things, prepared perfectly and laid out very carefully, just as the ritual had described. To the left was another immaculate place setting of perfectly spiced swordfish in the Prakran style atop a silky puree of kabocha squash, a bottle of Golden Goose on ice in front of it, a delicate champagne flute full of fizzing, almost clear liquid at the right of the setting. This was Nadia’s place in the ritual, her favorite food and drink, in the seat of the High Priestess.

Iris didn’t expect the ritual to be frozen in time like this; she felt claustrophobic in the room, as if the very air was folding into her, drawing her, inch by inch, into the void. She felt like she, too, was warping the longer she stayed in the room; she wondered, absentmindedly, if it had been a good idea for her to come here on her own, even with Faust here with her, tensed around her shoulders like a spring. 

Iris grabbed two napkins and covered her hands before carefully lifting Asra’s plate, peering underneath. Etched carefully into the gold was the mark of the bargain, inert and drained of its power, having been transferred to its intended recipient. Iris’s heart twisted as she slowly, carefully, lowered the plate back to the table. Everyone invited here had a bargain to strike, and all of them got their wish, even if it wasn’t in the way they, or Lucio, had intended. A shiver ran down Iris’s spine. 

She circled to the other side of the table, her eyes alighting on the seat to the left of the table’s foot; the plate was piled high with pieces of lobster, still in their ruby-red shells, the pinkish flesh succulent and tempting, drenched in melted butter. Iris’s heart twisted as her fingers traced the back of the chair, her eyes falling on the steaming mug of fragrant coffee, unadulterated, black. This was Julian’s seat; she wondered if he was already sick when he sat in this chair, when the Hanged Man came to him, or if it was after their bargain was struck that the Hanged Man appeared again to Julian in his delirium. 

Iris chewed her lip now as she surveyed the rest of the place-settings, each set with immaculate care and attention to detail; she didn’t need to lift every plate to know the mark was carved carefully into its base. She did not know every single person who sat at each seat (though her hands shook a little when she noticed the goblet of black mead at the ninth setting, the coils of fragrant smoked eel in dark, viscous sauce, carefully plated) but she could only presume each had a strong – or strong enough – connection to their corresponding Arcana. 

So _why_ did it fail? 

Iris found herself standing over the head of the table, her brows furrowed; at her back, her deck called to her, heat coursing through her spine. Without thinking, she retrieved the cards and shuffled, before drawing; the **Fool** , the downy chick on a branch of tiny blossoms, a black foot outstretched. The plate here was set with a gruesome meal of raw meat, diced impossibly small, several small quail’s egg yolks glistening over the meat’s surface, paired with a glass of Sonnet Lore. 

Iris couldn’t help but snort. Of course Lucio had placed himself at the seat of the Fool, though the ritual did not require it. Iris could think of no one less like the Fool, full of infinite possibilities and innocence, who embraced the soul-winds that brought about new beginnings, the adventures of the psyche. Reversed, though – recklessness, rushing forward without preparing, without openness…

A soft voice whispered in her ear, coming to her as her own. _Sit,_ it said, clearly, firmly; Iris felt the same tug, like reins around her heart, gently compelling her forward as she sat heavily in the velvet cushions of Lucio’s chair. Immediately, her vision clouded over, red and bloody, as if she had been struck across her eyes, and her head surged with pain; the air around her thickened, hot, aggressive, and jagged in her throat and lungs, as figures appeared seated around the long table in her vision, her ears ringing with the distorted sounds of clinking silverware, of lilting, playful conversation, of shrieking laughter. 

They were not the figures of the people she knew – Asra, Julian, Nadia, Muriel – but of the fox-formed magician, his playful smile; an owl-headed woman in gorgeous sky blue robes, her gaze unblinking; a hulking bear swathed in black with sad, reproachful eyes; the gaunt, glittering-eyed raven, his bare chest, his fetters; a broad-shouldered robed man with a ram’s head, a long-tusked boar, other creatures, but not enough, not enough, swung their red red eyes at Iris, their gazes burning hot, as they all opened their mouths in unison to drink from the matching golden goblets passed to them, red red wine poured from the ether as impossible heat licked Iris’s cheeks, arms, chest, making her feel as if she was going to melt, going to dissipate into ash with a bloodcurdling scream...

With a sickening, painful thud, Iris awoke from her vision, sprawled out on the floor, chest heaving as she hyperventilated; Lucio’s chair was knocked over behind her, taking a decanter of wine with it, filling the room with the acrid, biting smell of wine long turned to vinegar. Of course. Of course. Lucio’s ritual failed because he rushed into it without ensuring its success. He had less than half of the representatives present. 

Iris laughed, gently at first, then maniacally, hysterically, her body coiling, contorted, as she clutched at her stomach, her mouth wide, her head thrown back in a wicked howl. All of this tender detail, this suffering wrought, only to be botched by impatience and greed…

She felt the disgusting snuffling of hot air on her neck now, and she felt her voice rise, powerfully, in her throat: “You don’t even understand what went wrong, do you, Lucy?” She taunted him. With a snarl, he materialized before her in his lurching goat form, his eyes glittering with rage. 

_Of course I know what went wrong...Asra backstabbed me!_ Lucio practically roared in Iris’s ears. _He was supposed to mix the wine for the final part of the ritual with my blood, but he put pomegranate juice in it instead!_

Iris couldn’t help but cackle as she sat up, leaning forward on her hands, her legs folded underneath her torso. “Lucy, are you so asinine that you had some who completely loathes you prepare the most important part of this ritual?”

_Asra didn’t loathe me! He was my friend!_ Lucio bellowed, but Iris felt the cracks in his façade; she sneered fully as stood, face-to-face with Lucio’s form, and laughed one last time, salting his wound. 

“Asra hated you, Lucio. We all did. No one wants you back.” 

It was such a strange sight, Lucio’s great glittering eyes sparking over with fear, with doubt. _My Courtiers want me back! They miss me!_

“Do they miss you, or do they miss the power you gave them? Nadia is stripping them of their titles as soon as the masquerade is over.” Iris’s lips curled around this information, her sneer stretching and distorting her pretty features. “They seem pretty desperate to me, trying to send Nadia to the gallows to hold on to their power.” 

Lucio let out a growl and outstretched a horrible clawed hand to Iris; she fought hard not to cower at the thought of his touch, his power. Yet, he hesitated, claw shaking and hovering just inches in front of her face, his face contorted, as if held back by some invisible barrier. 

_It matters not._ He growled quietly now, and a chill gripped Iris’s spine. _They are helping me nonetheless. I will come back, pretty fool, and pomegranate juice won’t stop me this time. His eyes glittered horribly. I will have what’s mine, even if it means we will never have our chance in bed together. But I’ll still be inside your body all the same._

Iris retched and reared back, magic arcing from her fingertips; something about this room was warping her, amplifying her. “You mean the Fool’s body?” 

_You always were too clever for your own good, Iris._ Lucio grinned grotesquely now. _Your little boyfriend hijacked my ritual and made a bargain of his own to bring you back instead. My patron told me._

Iris raised a brow as she turned over his words. “Your patron?” 

It was Lucio’s turn to cackle now. _I daresay you’ve met him. But you’ll meet him again soon enough. Adieu, pretty fool. Don’t miss me too much._ He faded back into the realm between. 

Iris could barely drag herself out of the warped dining room, stumbling across the stone threshold before she collapsed to her knees. She palmed her temples, her head splitting with pain, her shoulders shaking, as her lungs filled with the cool, damp air of the stairwell as Faust’s tongue flicked, cold comfort, against the skin of her neck. She rolled forward, placing her head between her knees, her forehead on the chilly broken shale, as she slowed her breath, slowed her mind, eased the ache away. 

If Lucio, if his patron, were to be trusted – and if he was referring to the Devil, then they would not be able to lie – then her suspicions were confirmed. The body she was in now was not her own, but borrowed from the Fool, one of infinite futures, infinite possibilities. She ran her hands over her thighs, almost absentmindedly, and wondered how this body held her form, how it tethered her to the corporeal plane. It behaved as her body must have before she died – she remembered Asra and Julian’s touches, their bodies – and it looked just like she did in her memories, down to the moles on her ribs, the knobs of her back, the two sets of dimples on her cheeks. And she was still able to perform magic. She still felt like herself. Yet...with so many of her memories missing from the time before her resurrection, who was to say how different she was now?

It took Iris a long time to calm herself; when she was finally able stand, her legs were still shaky as she ascended the stairs back up to Lucio’s bedchamber. She considered what she had learned in the dining room; it was indeed the Fool’s body that Lucio was trying to borrow, and the ritual had failed. But if that were true...it meant that Lucio was not truly dead, only that his body was destroyed in the ritual. And it was mostly due to his own incompetency. 

But would she be able to prove it? She had seen the ritual, the room, but she couldn’t show it to all of Vesuvia, and she doubted they would just take her word for it. Her best bet was to find who else was at the ritual...she thought hard about the seats that were filled at the table as she rounded the landing and passed into Lucio’s dark bedchamber. After Asra’s and Nadia’s, the fifth seat was the next to be occupied, by a robed man with a ram’s head. That must be the Hierophant. 

At her back, something else hummed hot in her satchel, whispering gently to her from the secret pocket. Lucio’s trophies? She swung the bag off of her back and rummaged through it, until her fingers closed around the trinket, practically glowing golden in the low light of the room: the ram’s-headed brooch. 

Iris let out a little gasp as it practically vibrated in her hands. No doubt, this belonged to whoever sat in the Hierophant’s chair – the likeness to the Arcana was unmistakable. And if it was in Lucio’s trophy drawer…

The heat washed slowly over Iris, like the ebbing waves of a burning hot sea. Guided by the soft voice of the tether, she sank quietly into the memory. 

_The first thing that came to Iris was the deep scent of incense; something musky, heady, sensual – a mix of sandalwood and bergamot. Iris blinked back the light as she opened her eyes; the beautiful bedchamber was illuminated with several flickering candles on wrought-iron stands, casting mellow, mutable shadows that ducked and chased each other through the firelight._

_It was this light that illuminated the scene in front of Iris, a scene she found both repulsive and, somehow, tender and pitiful, sending a soft ache shooting through her heart, splitting her head again with pain. She had fallen into a memory of Lucio and Valerius being intimate, the Count sprawled on his back on the bed, the sheets twisted around him, while Valerius laid between his open legs, head bobbing, hands gripping Lucio’s thighs as the Count wound the Consul’s blonde braid around and through his hands, tugging just enough to wrest a groan from Valerius’ throat._

_In every memory Iris had recovered that featured Lucio, he was the picture of health, despite being infected with the plague; his eyes glittered with vitality, his pale skin was supple and envious, his frame was strong, hulking even. But here, the disease had finally caught up with him; he looked almost like a different man, his skin waxy, his posture withered and stooped. His face betrayed his age now, eyes rimmed red and sore, the delicate skin underneath bruised and dark, his cheekbones positively gaunt. The plague had finally stripped his youth, his beauty from him._

_Iris’s whole body boiled with disgust as the quiet room slowly filled with the sounds of orgasm, one man’s choked, huffing grunts, the other’s low groans, before Lucio came with a frustrated cry, jerking his hips up into Valerius’s mouth, causing him to gag as he tried to swallow. After their noises died away, their movements slowing, Valerius crawled forward with the nearly imperceptible rustling of satin sheets and laid down at Lucio’s side, his head on a shoulder. The Count wrapped his metal arm around the other’s shoulders, a gilded hand tracing down the Consul’s naked back before groping a slender cheek hard._

_“Soon, Nero...when I’m in my glorious new body...” Lucio growled, the lust in his voice barely contained, “I’ll be able to give you what you want. What we both want.”_

_Valerius’ brows furrowed; Iris could see he was carefully thinking through what he would say next. “Lucio...do you have any guarantee that this will work?” He asked pointedly, letting his fingers trail through the lank, blonde hairs on Lucio’s chest._

_Lucio’s eyes darkened. “You sound just like Asra. I know it will work. It has to.” He smiled wickedly now, eyes narrowed knowingly. “And even if it doesn’t, you’ll still get what you want from your patron. Power. I’m doing you a favor, really.”_

_Valerius’ eyes softened, making Iris’s heart pulse with sadness as she saw the pain, the fear in his eyes. “This is madness, Lucio. You have no business meddling with something like this. If even Asra has warned you against it...he’s one of the most respected magicians in Vesuvia...”_

_It happened so lightning fast that Iris barely registered what was happening until the slap echoed through the room; Valerius clutched his cheek, a welt already raising where Lucio had struck him with his human hand. Lucio was shaking, glaring at Valerius with a snarl curling his lip. Iris trembled; even inches from death, Lucio was terrifying._

_“I will not sit in my own bed and be scolded or told what to do!” He shouted. “You are dismissed, Nero.” He fell back into the bedsheets and rolled away from Valerius petulantly, like a spoiled child._

_Valerius sneered, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, but paused there for a moment, his fingers trembling as he gripped the mattress’s edge. Iris didn’t need her clairvoyance to see his frustration, his helplessness, but her clairvoyance showed her what she wouldn’t have been able to see – that his concern came from a place Iris couldn’t understand...a place of care for Lucio. The beginnings of tears stung in Valerius’s eyes as the room receded from Iris’s view, as if she was being pulled back by icy fingers that tugged at her shoulders…_

What greeted her in the bedchamber was not icy fingers, but a warm, slobbery tongue, a pair of furry paws on her shoulders. Iris’s heart surged as she wrapped her arms around Vasalisa and fell backwards, letting the warmth of the she-wolf’s body wash away the chilliness of the memory as the wolf nestled into her, throat rumbling with happiness.

“Iris!” A lilting soprano voice, drenched in urgency; Iris looked around Vasalisa to find Portia, standing in the doorway to the bedchamber, Mercedes and Melchior sniffing curiously at her heels, along with another black, doglike snout...Iris shot back up as Inanna entered the room, nose snuffing curiously before letting out a low growl. 

“Portia, is Muriel already here?” Iris said, her brow arched. It was possible, if he took one of Asra’s portals, but she hadn’t felt an aura powerful enough from him to cast that kind of magic. 

Portia’s eyes seemed to vibrate as they darted all over Iris. “Where have you been, Iris? It’s well past sundown, nearly 10 at night.” 

Iris started and stood shakily, before rushing to the heavy curtains on the other side of the room, flinging them open. She was greeted by cloudless starscape, a bold, fertile moon nearing fullness, at her apex in the night’s sky. 

She wheeled to Portia. “Lucio’s dining room...” She stammered. “It must...the ritual was unfinished… it’s in stasis, warping time...” 

“What?” Portia’s brows furrowed, before gesturing to Iris to follow her. “Fill me in while we get you to the dining room. You must be famished, and if I ever have to step foot into this room again, it’ll be too fucking soon.” 

Portia lead Iris down to the main wing of the palace, four canine bodies at their heels; Iris couldn’t help but ruffle Vasalisa’s ears affectionately as she trotted alongside Iris, little low grumbles of happiness dropping from her throat. When they reached the dining room, there was no porter – Portia threw the doors open easily and bustled through with hardly a second thought. 

Iris had to suppress a giggle at the sight that greeted her: Muriel, flushed with embarrassment, still in his rough, homespun clothing, his bulk crammed into one of the gleaming mahogany chairs, with two opulent Princesses on each side of him: Navra, Nahara, and Nasmira, along with a Princess Iris thought she recognized but couldn’t place, a pixie-esque woman decked out entirely in blue. When the door clanged open, Muriel rose from his chair, his gentle eyes meeting Portia’s, then Iris’s, as all four Princesses gazes swung to them. 

“Oh, Iris!” Navra’s mellisonant voice rose through the quiet. “Where have you been?” 

“In the void.” Iris said quietly, crossing the room to Muriel; as he shuffled a little awkwardly on his feet, she wanted to hug him, but she hesitated as she approached, settling for letting a hand gently rest on his arm. “Thank you for coming, Muriel. I know this isn’t easy for you.” 

Muriel dusky flush deepened, and he met her gaze briefly. “Inanna told me Asra was arrested too. I...I want to help.” 

Iris pursed her lips, and leaned into Muriel, her voice low. “If you mean that...you may need to talk about the ritual.” The color drained from his face; she didn’t need to explain. “If we can convince the public that it was the ritual that separated Lucio from his body, then there won’t be a crime to charge any of them for. We need a witness.” 

Muriel gulped, and Iris’s heart ached, but he nodded once, solemnly. She squeezed his arm. “Thank you.” She whispered. “I’ll be with you the whole time.” 

Portia, at Iris’s elbow, wound her arm around Iris’s gently, before leading her to the seat beside the blue-haired woman before sitting on Nahara’s side on the other end of the table. The unnamed Princess proffered a hand to the magician, who took it and shook it once firmly before remembering her mistake, but the Princess only smiled. “Natiqa. A pleasure to meet you, Iris. I’ve had my ear nearly gnawed off about you today.” 

Iris blushed slightly. “And which number Princess are you?” 

Natiqa laughed. “The sixth. I’m the Prakran ambassador to Vesuvia, and I hold a seat on the Juris.” 

Iris started; this was where she had seen the woman before – from announcements in the square with the Praetor. “I don’t envy your job.” 

Natiqa barked laughing again, taking a sip of the warm amber liquid swirling in her glass, like condensed sunshine. “Most days, I don’t either.” 

“Iris.” Portia said quietly, as a servant placed a bowl of a delicate spiced seafood soup in front of the magician. “What were you saying about Lucio’s dining room?” 

Iris brought the spoon to her lips, savoring the soup’s taste; she hadn’t realized how hungry she was until food was placed in front of her (how many days in a row now had she collapsed, missed meals?). She formed the words of her answer carefully before swallowing. 

“In the library, I was able to locate the entrance to the dungeons. In Julian’s old office, I found Asra’s spellbook, and I was able to discern which ritual was performed for Lucio during the masquerade – a ritual that would have allowed him to borrow the Fool’s body.”

From the corner of her eye, Iris saw Muriel’s eyes flutter closed. “What does that mean?” Natiqa asked, eyes narrowed. 

Iris pulled the spellbook out of her satchel, letting the thick tome thud heavily on the table, before flipping to the final ritual. “The Fool is the Arcana of limitless potential, of infinite possibility. They have the ability to bind themselves to any mortal, whether they have a deep connection to the Fool or not, though they are not easily convinced to do so. Essentially, you need a representative of each of the other Arcana to plead the benefactor’s case to their patron Arcana, who in turn brings it to the Fool.” 

“For most Arcana, that requires the representative giving something up in return. The ritual would require great sacrifice for each of the representatives, just to give Lucio a new body.” Iris tapped the page of the spellbook now. “This ritual facilitates appealing to the Arcana, sealing any bargains struck, and then binding of the Fool’s body to the benefactor through a blood ritual, should the Fool accept.” 

Nasmira’s hand flew to her heart. “That’s horrible.” 

Beside her, Nahara’s eyes narrowed. “What does the blood ritual involve? Lucio was infected with the plague at the time, was he not?” 

Iris shivered. “Each of the representatives must drink the blood of the benefactor.” 

Portia gasped. “But that would infect the representatives with the plague!” 

Iris pursed her lips, knowledge from her previous life flooding her. “It’s hard to say. We were never able to pinpoint the exact cause of the plague, but those who were close to the infected were more likely to catch it, so we believed it was either airborne or passed on through bodily fluids, but there were many people who caught it without any clear exposure. Either way...drinking the blood of someone infected with a plague would be incredibly risky and foolish.” She paused now. “Luckily, Asra stepped in. He swapped out Lucio’s blood for pomegranate juice, so we know for sure the Fool’s body was never bound to Lucio.” 

Natiqa’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know this?” 

Iris rubbed her neck and sighed. “After I went down to the dungeons, I went to Lucio’s wing to see if I could find the site of the ritual. He has a private dining room down there that’s been untouched for the last three years – because the ritual was never completed, it’s suspended in stasis. I thought I was only in there a half hour tops, but it was at least 8 hours.” Iris took a deep breath now. “I sat in the Fool’s chair, saw the ritual. Lucio only had 10 participants, including himself. He needed 22. And then Lucio appeared to me. When I asked him if he knew what went wrong in the ritual, he told me what Asra did.” 

It was Nahara’s turn to narrow her eyes. “Lucio appeared to you?” 

Iris’s gaze darted to Portia, then to Muriel. “We’ve all seen him appear. It’s his spirit, essentially, not dead but without a body. He’s trapped between realms.” Iris swallowed now. “He said something about returning. That his Courtiers are helping him.” 

Navra gasped. “That cannot happen.” 

“No.” Iris agreed. “But we can’t focus on that now. We need to win this trial first."

Besides her, Natiqa shifted, resting her chin against her knuckles. “We need a witness to prove the ritual happened. Otherwise, it’s hearsay, one that asks for a lot of suspension of disbelief around magic, and very dark magic at that.” 

“We have a witness.” Iris met Muriel’s gaze now. “Muriel, you were there, weren’t you?” 

Muriel nodded slowly. “I was.” 

Natiqa’s head shot up. “Why didn’t you say so? Can you recall the events of the night? Can you confirm that there weren’t enough representatives?” 

Muriel nodded. 

Natiqa chewed on her knuckle. “You seem like a credible witness, but it will still be a stretch. Proof you were there would be better.” 

Iris smiled softly. “I think we have proof, too. Muriel...that’s where you struck your bargain, isn’t it?” 

Muriel’s eyes were downcast; Iris had an inkling that this was more than he thought he would have to share. Still, he nodded again. 

“What bargain?” Nasmira asked, her wide eyes turned to Muriel, who seemed to quiver under her gaze. 

Iris turned to Portia. “Portia, can you empty your pockets, please?” 

The redhead cocked a curious eyebrow, but obliged; she dropped her keyring, her handkerchief, a small knife, and several other odds and ends on table before she paused, her brows furrowed. From her pocket, she lifted a small, sweet-scented leather pouch full of herbs, just as Iris had suspected. From the look on her face, Muriel had placed it in her pocket without her knowledge, perhaps to save himself the annoyance of introducing himself to her every time she bustled out the room. 

“Now...could you leave the room for a moment, count to five, and come back?” Iris instructed her. With another curious look, Portia stood and left the room. 

Iris turned to Muriel, and gestured that he stand. With a soft sigh, he obeyed, turning around and shrugging his leather cloak off his shoulders, exposing the broad expanse of his heavily scarred back; between the cleft of muscle, in the very small of his back, the mark shimmered white against his dark skin. 

All four Princesses leaned forward, in unison, to see, as the doors opened again and Portia bustled back in. She paused suddenly, her brows arched, her mouth open. “Who are you? How did you get in here?” She asked, alarmed; she began to raise her hand to beckon the guards, but Iris held up a hand to stop her. 

“Portia, you don’t remember Muriel? You were just talking to him.” Iris asked gently. 

Portia furrowed her brows. “No…?”

Iris handed her the charm from across the table, and recognition seemed to flood Portia’s face as she took it, though her brows were still furrowed with confusion. Muriel turned back to the group, his face flushed; he sat back down heavily, wrapping his cloak around his shoulders again. At his side, Inanna licked his hand, attempting to soothe the distress that washed over his features. 

It was Navra who broke the silence. “What a price to pay. A curse.” 

“Or a blessing.” Nasmira said quietly, surveying the man seated beside her with a small, empathetic smile. Iris felt a gentle rush of affection for her. 

Natiqa tapped her fingers together now. “We’d have to prove it in court.” 

“That’s easy.” Iris said. “It was easy to prove just now. Julian’s bargain will be easy to illustrate, too. Asra and Nadia’s...not so much. And...” She bit her lips together. “I bet Valerius has one, too. He was there. Along with the other courtiers, I’d assume. But who knows what activates them.” 

Natiqa smiled wickedly. “Oh, that’s juicy. If we’re able to prove Valerius _knows_ that it was the ritual that killed Lucio...err, separated him from his body...it will discredit the court, which will work immensely in our favor.” 

Portia shook her head. “He’s a tough nut to crack. Even when drunk, he’s meticulous.” 

Natiqa nodded. “Iris, Portia and I discovered earlier today that the courtiers have no solid evidence, but that doesn’t mean that we’re out of the woods. I’ll give Valerius this – he’s a convincing orator, and we need to be prepared to discredit his arguments, even if he doesn’t present any evidence. I might be able to provide some assistance there.” Natiqa raised her eyebrows. “I’ve litigated against him several times. I’d like to think I know most of his tricks.” 

Nahara spoke up. “Then perhaps we should lay out all the evidence we have, and help Iris form her arguments. Natiqa, you can provide Iris with guidance on how Valerius will respond.” 

The group agreed with nods and murmurs of assent, and Iris began to pull everything out of her satchel. Portia gestured to the single servant in the room, and they put the kettle on for coffee and tea. It was to be a long night.

*******

It was nearly 3 in the morning when Iris dragged herself back to her guest room; she noticed absentmindedly that someone had repaired her door, which she slid shut behind her before falling backwards into the bed, Vasalisa hopping up at the foot before curling up into a ball, Faust sidling up next to her. Iris kicked off her shoes and rolled over onto her side, facing the wall; the silk bedsheets were cold, still mussed from the night’s sleep, the morning’s lovemaking.

On the pillow, Iris could smell the sweet scent of Asra’s hair, woodsmoke and oranges and herbs, the clarifier from Nadia’s bath...she recalled the muscled slope of Julian’s shoulders as he laid on his side in his sleep, the fine spray of freckles across his pale skin that could only be seen when laying next to him, felt Asra’s toned arms around her as his chest rose and fell in tandem with his soothing heartbeat, his lips and voice soft against her neck... 

With tears in her eyes, Iris sat up, her face in her hands, her heart pounding as her breath caught in her throat. Despite the last 5 hours of work on the trial tomorrow, they were still missing a critical piece, one that they could not reckon together with the evidence they had. 

“But how do we prove that Valerius was there?” Natiqa said firmly, mere minutes ago. “We can provide all this evidence and testimony about how the ritual might have happened, but everyone here has a vested interest. We _need_ to prove he was there for this to work.”

Iris shook her head, laying her forehead on her tented arms. “All we can do is try to activate his mark. But who knows what activates it, or if it will even be in a place on his body they’ll be able to see?”

Portia laid her hand on Iris’s shoulder. “Princess, you don’t think it will be enough for Iris to play up her role as witch? For them to believe that this ritual actually happened?” 

Nahara shook her head. Besides her, Nasmira had dozed off, her head nodding onto Muriel’s arm. He was flushed and flustered, sitting up ramrod straight, lest he disturb her slumber. Normally, Iris would find this endlessly amusing and rescue him, but she didn’t have the energy now. Navra paced nervously by the tall windows behind them.

“It will convince some, but make others more skeptical.” The eagle-eyed Princess explained. “There are many who believe magic-users are con-artists and criminals.” 

Navra clapped her hands gently, pausing her pacing. “We’ve been debating this for an hour, and we’ve gotten nowhere near our answer. Let’s regroup in the morning. Iris must rest if she’s to perform well tomorrow.” Her lidded eyes glimmered. “We’re all tired. Perhaps the answers will come to us in our dreams.” 

And so they disbanded to their separate rooms, anxiety gnawing in the pits of their stomachs. Iris knew that she should try to sleep, rest, but her heart was racing, and she couldn’t settle. With a heave of her shoulders, she turned around and surveyed the room; her eyes fell on the vanity wedged between the bed and the door. Someone had unpacked her things, undoubtedly while she was out cold yesterday. On the vanity sat the lacquered box, gleaming in the low candlelight. 

She picked it up and carefully thumbed opened the trick lock, the lid springing open. In the whirlwind of the last three days, she’d had no time to examine the trinkets her past self had collected; an ache shot through her as she carefully pulled pieces out to examine them closely in the flickering light. These were not even the same fingers that put them in this box, she thought, her lips trembling slightly. 

Each piece she touched lay silent for her now; she couldn’t tell if she was too tired to retrieve her memories, or if her intuition was guiding her to a specific one. She pulled out dusty stones, amazonite and tourmaline and lapis lazuli, perhaps from trips she took with Asra, with her parents. She pulled out calling cards with names written shakily on them in children’s writing, perhaps friends from her childhood. She pulled out folded notes, finely-wrought buttons, a haphazard knot of hand-spun lace, shredded to tatters.

In the bottom of the box, there was a small folio, in which she found some drawings and more pressed flowers; she pulled out the drawing on the top, done in soft layered graphite, of her poring over an open book, her face cradled in an open palm, lips pursed, fingers paused in the act of tapping against her cheek, her long hair pulled up into a messy dancer’s bun at the crown of her head, some soft tendrils slipping out around her forehead. It was Julian’s work, undoubtedly from their time together in the palace. 

She pulled out the next drawing and bit back her quivering lips. It was of her, but not of her; it was a sketch in ink of a Tarot card design, her long hair and a simple, flowing white dress billowing as she stood over the edge of a cliff, her face turned towards the sun in profile. The lines were impossibly clean, the black of the ink stark against the pristine white of the paper, each stroke of the pen sure and certain. At the bottom, where the number would be, there was an infinity sign, and a note in Asra’s angular, decisive handwriting. 

_To every infinite version of you...happy 20th birthday, Iris._

With tears in her eyes, Iris lifted it out of the folio; behind it was a large flower, pressed between wax paper. She set the drawing down gently, next to Julian’s sketch, and peeled the paper away. It was a pink-throated peony, some of its many dried petals falling away from the stem. Iris gently touched one of the petals, attempting to coax it back between the leaves of wax paper; she gasped as heat rushed into her from her fingertips, and nearly cried with happiness as a memory overtook her. 

_When Iris opened her eyes, she was laying on her stomach in the gardens; it was one of those days in late April, early May, that are the lovechildren of spring and summer, where the air itself feels alive with the smell of greenness, with the warmth of the sun after long seasons of cold and damp. That same sun bore down on the bare skin of her back; she was wearing a short-sleeved, tight-fitting shirt with the back scooped out, a corseted belt over her waist, and a long, flowing linen skirt that was fanned out around her as she laid on the cool earth. Her feet were bare, her toes running slowly through the lush grass, and in front of her was a small stack of spellbooks, which she studied happily, the sunlight dappled on the pages as it shone through the peony branches that surrounded her._

_The little oasis they’d found was secluded, just outside the hedge maze and not far from the greenhouses, but not often used, or even passed; Iris could tell that even the gardeners did not come through often, with how wild the peonies had grown, giant, delicious-smelling blooms winding up and into the wooden trellises that arched above them. Despite the multitude of courtesans, researchers, and servants who had escaped out into the sunshine after the oppressive rain of spring, the chaos of the winter, the two of them remained undisturbed._

_At her side, Julian lay on his back, his head cradled in his hands, which were flung up over his shoulders, the silk of his shirt stretching against the roundness of his muscled arms, the white chinoiserie clasps against his chest straining a little. One leg was slung over the other, in soft leather pants that hugged every angle of his body. He was dozing, and Iris didn’t disturb him with chatter; he barely slept as it was, and he had been working himself to the bone on his research, training his apprentices, running the clinic, attending to Lucio, and somehow, finding time to see Iris._

_They had been paramours for two months now. At first, Iris had never imagined their relationship would be anything other than a physical fling, a distraction – Julian didn’t seem the type of person who tied himself down, having been rumored to be quite the heartbreaker amongst the palace’s ladies and no small number of the men. And Iris...Iris just wanted something, someone to take her mind off of her aching loneliness._

_She was shocked when he had asked her to accompany him to dinner, taking her out into the city; their lush Kashtan dinner turned into wine tasting at a (very expensive) sommelierie, turned into more drinks (and perhaps a touch of dancing) at a much rougher establishment, turned into them falling into bed together at his loft in the Southside for a some of the wildest sex of her life. Several dates followed, and when those dates started ending not in hot sex but in something closer lovemaking, it became clear to Iris that Julian’s intentions with her were not just to be casual bedfellows. When Julian tentatively asked her if she was seeing anyone else, she expected to panic, but her heart had swelled with something like happiness; they had been exclusive for nearly three weeks._

_She stole furtive little glances at him each time she got to the end of a paragraph; she would not say yet that she loved Julian, but she loved the way his perpetual smirk melted away in sleep, the tiny freckles on his cheeks, nose, ears, neck, that were like constellations just for her (she wondered if they would get darker as the summer wore on; her heart fluttered at the thought), the tiny sounds he made as he slept on his back, a soft, rhythmic sound that was neither a grunt nor a groan nor a snore, but was not far off from all three. When she had her fill of looking at him, she turned back to her reading, focusing intently on the spell she wanted to learn._

_With Asra gone, she had no one to teach her magic, so she was teaching herself. Even with her studies with Julian and the other apprentices, she tried to learn a new spell or potion every week; this one was a complex telesthesia spell, one that was particularly tricky. It would require her to use her clairvoyance in tandem with a deft hand at illusion and just a touch of willbending. She was reading the portion that discussed the ethics of willbending with this specific spell when she felt something brush against her temple; a set of long fingers smoothed back an errant tendril of hair that had escaped the loose chignon at her neck before tucking a peony bloom into her hair._

_She didn’t let Julian’s sweet touches distract her, even when his fingertips traced slowly down her neck and over her shoulder to the bareness of her back, her waist, his cool palm pressing into the rolling hills of flesh where the muscle dove into the spine. She tried to finish another paragraph before turning her attention to him, but gentle kisses on the bare skin of her arm dragged her away._

_She turned her head towards him, unable to stop the small smile that sculpted her pillowy lips. He was gazing up at her with starry eyes, still a little hazy from sleep. “You shouldn’t be studying.” He murmured against her skin, his breath warm. “You need to relax; you can’t learn when you’re tired. You’ve been working so hard.”_

_“This is relaxing to me.” She whispered, dipping down to kiss his forehead. “I like reading. I like studying. And this isn’t a medical textbook.”_

_Julian’s eyes flitted to the text on the page, scanning quickly. “You mean to tell me you read **The Ethics of Willbending in Telesthesia Magicks** for fun?”_

_Iris raised her eyebrows. “That I do.”_

_Julian let out a little play-moan, and drew his kisses up to her neck, letting them linger on the fragrant skin there. “You must be a riot at parties.”_

_Iris snorted. “Like you don’t read the **Quod Corpus Non Dico** in Romance for fun.” _

_Julian laughed, two soft barking sounds, before he planted his lips onto Iris’s jaw, making his intentions clear. “What can I do to help you relax?” He whispered, his tenor voice sotto and breathy._

_“I like kissing.” Iris said, quietly, meeting his lips with hers; together, they rolled over in the warm grass, Julian’s hands on Iris’s waist as he pressed his hips into hers, their lips gently exploring each others._

_“Just kissing?” Julian said coyly, pulling away from Iris just a little bit, their gazes meeting. The naked desire in his gray eyes made Iris want to swoon._

_“For now, yes.” She said, touching his cheeks with both hands, bringing his lips back to hers. They kissed again for a few moments, but Julian’s hands had other ideas, grabbing at her soft breasts through her shirt before trailing down her waist to her hips._

_“Kissing where?” He murmured, his lips trailing down her jaw to her neck, her clavicle._

_Iris giggled, then groaned as he dropped his tongue between the cleft of her breasts. “Any kisses...” she moaned quietly. “Anywhere...”_

_She could feel Julian pawing at her rustling skirt, pushing it up around her hips. “Anywhere?” He asked, his voice rumbling and low against her breastbone as he nibbled at one of the swells of her chest. His fingers brushed against the now-bare skin of her thighs, tracing up and into the fleshy crest where her legs met her hips. She let out a soft grunt, and pressed her pelvis against his, a low fire alighting in her belly, her sex._

_“Anywhere…” She whispered, closing her eyes and throwing her head back against the spellbook splayed out on it spine in the grass. Julian didn’t need to be asked again; biting his lip, he lowered his flushed face between her legs and kissed the sweet, velvety skin he found there, just beginning to moisten with desire._

_His kisses were chaste at first, his lips closed as they grazed against her labia, kissing the inside of her thighs, the creases of her hips, the soft down on her mound. Only when Iris’s sounds and movements grew more desperate, slickness coating her lips, did Julian kiss her sex, his mouth lingering on her heat, teasing her lips apart with his tongue, making Iris moan quietly and raise her hips a little against his touch. When he ran the flat of his tongue over her swollen clitoris, then flitted it gently over against her several times in quick succession, Iris arched her back and bit her lips hard, knowing they were moments away from being spotted, especially if she drew attention to them with the wanton sounds of lovemaking._

_Julian pressed his tongue harder against her a few times before circling slowly; Iris let a hum of pleasure rise up between her pursed lips as she raised her legs up and encircled his back with them. He groaned softly, and grasped at both of her hips, digging long, graceful fingers into the delicious give of her fullness._

_Iris whispered, “Faster, Ilya...” as she rolled her hips against his face; with a soft grunt and a deepening flush, he obeyed, circling both faster and harder against her clit._

_Julian was an attentive, responsive lover, so focused on Iris’s bliss and so enraptured with the taste of her, the quiet sounds she made, that he pleasured her slowly and softly for so long that the shadows lengthened before she came, her cries choked and strained as she dug her heels into his back, gyrating her hips against his lips. He eased her through her orgasm with long, languid, full presses of his tongue against her quivering sex, his voice deep as he hummed with delight. When she was done, her fingertips trailing through his auburn waves, he crawled up to her, kissing her hotly with her wetness on his tongue, as Iris wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rolled him over onto his back, straddling him._

_He groaned into her open mouth as she undid the laces of his leather pants with her magic, her arms still around his shoulders, running her fingers through his hair, as his cool hands traced her waist, palmed her back. When his stays were undone, Iris pulled his hard cock out, hot and heavy in her hand, as Julian fished a prophylactic out from his pocket. Iris rolled it over his erection deftly, eliciting a soft whine of anticipation from him, before she mounted him, sinking her entire warmth needfully onto him in one fluid motion._

_They made love together like that in the dappled grass, surrounded by blooming peonies, the air filled with the intoxicating scent of spring and their quiet, restrained sounds, one of Julian’s hands on her clothed waist, the other touching her under her skirt as she steadied herself with her hands against his chest. After many, many minutes of bucking and rocking against his hips in the sunlight, Iris came again with Julian inside of her, and the warmth, the wetness, the throbbing pulse of her voluptuous girl-on-top orgasm guided him to his own edge. Iris leaned into his chest and kissed him full on the mouth as he came, both to muffle his sounds and to get closer to him as he rode his wave of bliss with a few final fluid, gentle thrusts of his hips._

_“Fuck, Iris...” He breathed as she lifted her hips off of him, his now-slippery, sheathed cock slapping heavily against his stomach. She nestled into him, her head on his shoulder, as he wrapped one arm around her waist while his breath steadied. With his other hand, he carefully took off the condom before Iris magicked it into the void._

_He buried his lips into her hair, now mussed from their lovemaking, kissing her hairline gently as she ran her free hand over his chest, easing him back into the realm of the living. For a few moments, they were silent as their hearts steadied. It was Julian, his voice still heady and sweet, who spoke._

_“Tell me about the spell you’re learning.” He murmured._

_Iris’s eyelashes fluttered against his shoulder. “It would allow me to show someone’s memories to a third party. Essentially, I would act as a conduit between the memory-holder and the other person. You can only do it if you’re clairvoyant.”_

_Julian pulled her a little closer. “It sounds complicated.”_

_Iris nodded against his scented neck. “It is. It’s something I’ll need to practice.”_

_The sound that Julian made was something between a laugh and a soft sigh. “You must need someone to practice with. I could help you...if you wanted.” He pinked a little._

_Iris raised her eyebrows, sitting up a little against his chest. “Are you sure? I would be looking into your private memories. Projecting them outward. For anyone to see.”_

_Julian’s gray eyes were soft as he regarded her. “I trust you.” He murmured, before kissing her softly on the lips._

_Iris guided Julian to sit, and she sat cross-legged in front of him, their knees touching. She placed her left hand over her breastbone, and then placed her other hand on Julian’ s chest. “There’s one other thing...” Iris murmured softly. “I’ll have to touch your neck. Is that okay?”_

_Julian shuddered almost imperceptibly, opening one eye coyly. “Sounds kinky.” He said roguishly, a smirk slicing across his face. Iris smacked his knee lightly, one corner of her mouth turning upward._

_“I’m serious, Ilya. Are you sure?” Iris asked. He nodded certainly, still smirking, before closing his eyes again._

_Softly, gently, Iris placed her thumb right on the seat of his fifth chakra, his Adam’s apple, and let the rest of her fingers fall naturally around his neck. He stiffened a tiny bit at first, and then the tension melted away, a very soft groan rising up from his throat as he closed his eyes._

_“I want you to imagine a happy memory from childhood. One that comes to you often.” She murmured, voice dulcet. “Focus on your senses, the sights and sounds, the tastes and smells, the sensations on your skin. I want you to see all of it in your mind’s eye.”_

_Julian’s lips parted as he concentrated; Iris could feel the gentle bobbing of the muscles in his neck as he swallowed. She focused her clairvoyance on the memory that Julian was offering up to her; it was vivid, and she could practically feel the spray of the salty sea, smell the pungent perfume of the ocean, hear the gulls crying in the air. Her eyes unfocused on the scene around them, the memory from his childhood materializing around her…_

_A young Julian, no older than nine, his hair much redder and his skin absolutely covered in (dark!) freckles, was sitting next to a tall man with long, wavy, dark brown hair. A child-sized vielle was slung under Julian’s chin, and both of their feet were dangling idly over the edges of a bleached white cliff, the sea sparkling, turquoise, and still below them._

_The man held a flugel in his lap, and when Juilan’s eyes met his, he nodded encouragingly, his eyes warm (he looked so achingly like Julian now, his coloring darker, his features a little softer, stronger). Julian raised the bow to the strings of his vielle, and Nicolya raised the flugel to his lips, patiently waiting as Julian began to play a soft, full melody, long, languid notes punctuated with sprinklings of soft plucks – even as a young child, he was a sensitive, if shaky, musician. After a few bars, his father came in with the beautiful, mellow sounds of the flugel, their combined sounds rising above the soft percussion of the tide, soaring through the cloud-spackled sky._

_After several bars, Nicolya let the flugel drop from his lips so he could sing, while little Julian kept playing; Iris recognized the song as a Nivenese work song, popular among the sailors and fishermen that populated the docks of the city._

_“We tell tales to be known, or be spared the sorrow...you’re so fair to behold...what will be left when you’re gone?”_

_Iris felt the memory fade from her as she fluttered her eyes open. Julian’s gaze was transfixed on the space above her head, his lips parted, open; he blinked a few times, before his eyes fell onto hers, a little misty._

_“Did it work?” She asked breathlessly. Her heart was fluttering in her chest, like a songbird taking wing, finally free from its pretty cage._

_“Iris...” He said, astonished. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Shakily, like his muscles were short-circuiting, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her deeply, pulling closer until she was practically in his lap._

_Their gazes met again, full of affection, adoration, of something, something soft and painful – then Iris felt a chill rise up her spine to her neck, sending a diaspora of goosebumps over her skin as she slipped out of the memory._

Iris gasped as the guest room faded back into her periphery, and she scrambled out of bed, falling wildly into the spellbooks on her desk, tearing through them until she found what she was searching for: the book on clairvoyance from her memory. She flipped furiously through the pages until she fell upon what she was looking for: Telesthesia and its Complications. 

Practically sobbing with relief, Iris fell back into the bed, her eyes swimming over the page as she made to reread the section; she barely got through the first paragraph before she nodded into sleep, the pages splayed open before her as her head dropped onto the silken pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: ;fkja;slkfdjasdlkfjask;dlfj sld 12k words later…
> 
> A few things. First. bb. Julian. covered in freckles. playing the vielle. with   
> his dad. ughhhhhh, you're welcome.
> 
> Second. Can we talk about Natiqa?? What a fucjkging Aries. I love her so much. She was fun to write. There is a sad lack of Natiqa content in this fandom.
> 
> Third: I’m very excited to write my first Law and Order SVU episode, coming to you in part 3 of Justice. See you there, friends.


	3. Justice, Part 3: Here I Am, A Rabbit-Hearted Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bat for Lashes - Glass // Iron & Wine - House by the Sea **
> 
> _CW: Allusions to dubcon, torture referenced, self-harm, MCD referenced_

Iris dreamt again.

_She was breathless, the baby hairs around her forehead plastered to her skin as she slipped into the courtyard through the portal, praying she wouldn’t be noticed. Quickly, quickly, she adjusted again the plunging neckline of her white silk dress, the heavy agate that sat against her sternum. She scanned the crowd, pairs and deltas of riotously dressed Courtiers and nobles and aristocrata, rubbing elbows with the just-budding irises, the satin crush of tulips, the childlike sunshine of daffodils._

_She didn’t need to find the face she was searching for – a gentle hand gripped her elbow, a voice low and streaked with quiet urgency in her ear. “Iris, where were you?” Julian whispered and tugged her tenderly into his grasp, one arm around her shoulders, draped against the secret skin of her back. “No one could find you.”_

_“I’m sorry, Julian, I’ll explain, but I have to tell you something, I –” Iris was cut short as another voice echoed through the garden, one that still, after all this time, sent icy shrapnel through her bloodstream. Julian’s hand tensed on her shoulder, his soft eyes hardening as Lucio strode towards them like a bullet out of the barrel, his horrifying gold claw around the shoulders of some pretty, blushing young thing, practically stumbling on long legs to keep up._

_Iris did a double-take as they grew closer: Lucio, his floor-length, undulating blood-red jacket, unbuttoned to his navel and embroidered all over with massive roses, drunkenly twisted on his body, a slight sheen to his pale skin; his companion’s long hair disheveled, sweeping tendrils dragged out of their braids, looped back into an austere knot at the nape of his neck, the distinctive ombré of the Umbrians. Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, strong brow, and steely eyes, just like his mother. Nero Valerius._

_Iris suppressed the shudder that shattered through her as they approached, Lucio’s swagger suffocating. “I thought you’d be performing by now, pretty fool.”_

_“We were waiting for you, Lucio.” Julian said quietly, squeezing Iris’s shoulder, a warning. “You were gone quite some time. Unfortunately, Nadia had to retire.”_

_Lucio scoffed. “She needs to learn to hold her wine.” His gaze flickered back to his companion, his crimsoned eyes narrowed, knowing. It was then that Iris saw that Valerius was trembling, eyes downcast, the corners of his lips pulled taut. “And what kind of host would I be if I didn’t give Nero the tour?”_

_Julian opened his mouth, then thought better of it. “No piano, then?”_

_Iris startled when Lucio’s laughter boomed again through the garden, and he clapped Valerius on the shoulder, the younger man buckling a little under the force. “Nero’s no slouch on the piano himself, or so Treasa tells me. Isn’t that right, Nero?” At his side, Valerius paled, but nodded once._

_Lucio waved his hand at Julian. “Teach him the scales or whatever. I’m going to go get some wine, and when I get back, I want to hear your pretty voice, Iris.” His smile split lecherously as his eyes bored into her, before sliding back to Valerius. “I’m thinking Highnoon Rendezvous?” Lucio purred to him with a sultry wink._

_Valerius’s eyes lit up for the first time, darting to Lucio’s – the Count laughed indulgently. “Expensive taste, just like your mother. I’ll be back before you know it.”_

_He sauntered away, leaving all three of them wide-eyed. It was Iris, with a swallow, who recovered first. “Come on, it’s just chords.” She whispered, touching Valerius’s shoulder tenderly. “I’ll show you.”_

_The piano had been wheeled to the balcony, the glossy black like a smear of wet ink on the paper-white marble; Iris could feel her hands tremble as she peeled away the tongue of velvet over the keys, as she mimed the hand placements – she didn’t know the chord names, only where Nadia’s hands fell when they practiced._

_Valerius watched her, confused, brows furrowed; then he nodded, curtly, his eyes flitting to Iris’s – he understood. Iris smiled wanly, squeezing very gently, reassuringly, at his shoulder; he was dressed in a fine robe of narrow stripes and red poppy blooms, the Nipponese silhouette thick and structured, the embroidered sash at his waist accentuating his narrow frame. Then, Iris saw it – the stain, still wet, hardly more than a few damp spots dotting his wide collar._

_With a quiet gasp, still sharp in the punctured silence as Julian tuned his vielle, his back turned to them, Iris twisted her fingers, like turning a doorknob; her stomach churned as the thick liquid slid out of the fabric, and she flung it away with a flick of her wrist, onto the marble with an inaudible splat._

_Valerius’s gaze shot up to her, something between mortification and anger; what passed through them silently, Iris had no name for, and she dared not look deeper; she quieted the little voice screaming inside her, demanding to press her fingers into this quivering slip of a man, hardly older than her, the weight of the world already settling heavily on his shoulders._

_And then, the teasing scrape of claws against the secret skin of her shoulders; she jumped, and Lucio laughed as he handed her a glass of smooth red wine, sharp and dry, dark legs sliding slowly down as it swirled, teasingly, in its glass. “Break a leg, Iris. Nero.” He cooed, as he handed Valerius his drink; the young man looked away, taking a deep, almost uncouth drink as he turned towards the keys._

_Julian gently cleared his throat, not even acknowledging Lucio as he handed him a glass of wine, too, placing it carefully on the balcony, before turning back to Iris, eyes gentle, encouraging. Wide-eyed, gap-mouthed, heart pounding, she stepped forward, glancing back at Valerius only once, his posture ramrod straight even as his shoulders shook slightly._

_He began, chords, soft and melancholy, descending, discordant; he was gentle, the piano barely a whisper, stirring even Iris as the garden quieted, the guests curiously approaching the low balcony. Lucio leaned against the balustrade, eyes roving over the three of them as Julian slung the vielle under his chin and began to play, first gentle pizzicato flourishes that mirrored Valerius’s chords, then low, sweeping, moving notes, a lament, a celebration, both._

_Iris almost missed her cue, so absorbed as she was in the halting, lilting music they made for her voice, her voice alone; with a crack, she appeared at the apex of the balcony with a scattering of rose and peony petals, drifting down to the audience before her as the air shimmered around her, an illusion that amplified every drifting movement of her arms, every soft, slow roll of her neck as she sang:_

_“Last I saw mother, she rose from her chair  
When they caught me I’d just finished combing my hair  
‘cuz a rabbit will run and the colt runs alongside the mare_

_We’ve all known the earth while we’ve carried the throne  
We dove under the rivers and under our clothes  
And I still have a prayer, as sure as my settling bones_

_Last I saw mother, she covered my ears  
When they caught me, I offered the captain a beer  
‘cuz a rabbit will run and the lion has nothing to fear_

_We bricked up the garden and know what it means  
and we’ve all kissed a virgin as if she were clean  
and I still have a prayer, despite all the colors I’ve seen_

_Judgment is just like a cup that we share  
I’ll jump over the wall and I’ll wait for you there  
Well past the weeds and our visions of things to come_

_We’ve all heard the rooster and all been denied  
and we’ve seen through the haze and the spit in our eyes  
and I still have a prayer, a well-weathered word to the wise_

_Last I saw mother, she smelled like a rose  
When they caught me, the captain, he opened my nose  
‘cuz a rabbit will run and the wind takes the bird where it blows_

_We’ve all traded lovers and woke up alone  
and we’ve clapped for the king though our fingers were cold  
and I still have a prayer ‘cuz I love what I cannot control_

_Last I saw mother, she acted surprised  
When they caught me, the captain, he cried like a child  
‘cuz a rabbit will run and good dogs together go wild_

_We’ve all turned to grace at the end of the day  
and we’ve all armed the children we thought we betrayed  
and I still have a prayer but too few occasions to pray_

_Judgment is just like a cup that we share  
I’ll jump over the wall and I’ll wait for you there  
Well past the weeds and our visions of things to come_

_We’ve all had a reason for hiding a gun  
and we’ve helped out a few if we’ve hurt anyone  
and I still have a prayer, so be it, I’ve done what I’ve done_

_Last I saw mother, she blew me a kiss  
When they caught me, the cuffs cut the blood from my wrists  
‘cuz the rabbit will run and the pig has to lay in its piss_

_We’ve all give half to the hand in our face_  
_We’ve all taken a stone from the holiest place_  
_And I still have a prayer; I’ve furthered the world, in my way...”_

*******

Though it was still midmorning, biting cold and foggy, when Portia and Iris descended from their carriage in front of the coliseum, Iris was shocked to find the crowd so thick that, even with their escorts, they had to shoulder and shove to get through.

The guards watching the door whisked them through, recognizing them both immediately; a female guard fell from the ranks and ushered them to the narrow hallways that snaked underneath the seats. “I imagine you’ll want to speak with the prisoners.” She said gruffly, but not unkindly. 

Iris lowered the hood of the white velvet cloak; her lips were painted with a deep burgundy lipstick, upper lashline swiped over with soft gray kohl. At Portia’s insistence, she was even wearing a dusting of shimmering, peach-soft rouge. “Please.” 

The three of them descended now down a neglected spiral staircase, plunging much deeper into the earth than the red market, the air growing chillier with each step. When they reached the wooden door, it was warped with damp as the guard shoved it open. 

Another guard saluted to them as they stepped across the threshold. “Which of the prisoners would you like to confer with first?” He asked, as the female guard bowed and took her leave. 

“Asra.” Iris said, voice quiet and certain. Without a word, the guard took the two of them through the winding hallways, until finally they came to a large cell, barely illuminated by one torch. It appeared to be empty, aside from a shape curled up on the cot in the corner, with only one roughspun blanket to warm them. 

“Asra?” Iris called gently, wrapping a hand around one of the bars, before jerking it away is if she had been burned, a soft gasp pulled from her lips. Just touching the bar had sapped some of her magic from her; she could feel it rapidly flowing back into her body, but as she saw Asra stand, his shoulders slumped and burdened, she realized that being in that horrible cell stripped him of all his magic, all his energy. When he lifted his face to her, his eyes lit up with recognition, and he rushed to her as far as he could before the fetters around his wrists, attached on a long chain to the back of the cell, just as Muriel’s had been, prevented him from going any further. 

Iris groaned in frustration, and she reached her arms carefully through the bars; though they were not able to hold each other, Asra wrapped his strong, amber hands around her wrists and brought them to his lips, dropping warm, lingering kisses on her fingers, her palms, her knuckles, the tender flesh of her wrists. She heard a soft rustling at her side; Portia took a few steps away down the hallway to the guard, to press Asra’s change of clothes into his arms, and give the two lovers a little privacy.

“I heard you call my name, but I thought it was a dream.” He whispered between kisses. “But here you are. You’re real.” 

“I’m real. I’m here. Are you okay?” Iris murmured to him; she tried to keep her voice even, but she could hear the swell of panic as her timbre rose with the question.

“I’ll be fine.” He muttered, bringing one of her hands up to his cheek, nuzzling into her touch; Iris’s heart throbbed at the feeling of his skin under her palm. “I feel better now that you’re here.” He blinked his lovely violet eyes open, meeting Iris’s indigo gaze; they were quiet a moment, just absorbing the comfort of the other’s presence, their love. Even after just one terrifying night apart, Iris felt like it had been eons since she held him in her arms, and her whole body cried with wanting. 

After a time that was not nearly enough for either of them, Iris broke the silence. “It’s nearing the time of the trial. I have a chance to confer with each of the prisoners before we start.” Iris’s eyes hardened a little. “We don’t have a lot of time, and I need to ask you some questions, Asra.” 

“Of course.” He said. “I promised I would be honest with you, my heart. I meant it.”

“I know.” She said quietly, her features warming. She pulled her hands back from the cell and lifted the heavy gray tome of the Arcana out of her satchel at her hip. “This is the book you wanted me to find?” She asked quietly. His whole body seemed to release its tension as he saw it; he heaved a relieved sigh. 

“I knew you’d be able to find a copy.” He said quietly, a soft smile glowing on his warm features. 

“Actually...” Iris said, pursing her lips. “This is yours. I found it in Julian’s office in the dungeons.” She flipped through the pages now. “I think...Julian took it from you when you two broke it off. And...after the ritual, he probably used it to summon the Hanged Man back to him.” 

Asra’s eyes flickered over the pages as Iris flipped through the marked-up book; she had removed the drawing, knowing that it would not help their case today, stowing it safely in her memory box in the guest room. “Why would Julian summon the Hanged Man back to him?” Asra asked quietly.

“I don’t know. To make another deal? He caught the plague. He was delirious; he was dying.” Iris shut the book now. “Do you remember the ritual?” 

Asra closed his eyes. “Barely. It’s all a fog. I remember the ritual was doomed from the start. There was only ten of us. Other than that...” 

“Do you remember sabotaging the ritual?” Iris said quietly. “Putting pomegranate juice in the wine instead of Lucio’s blood?” 

Asra’s eyes flew wide. “No, no...ah...yes. Yes! I do. Arcana help us.” He swallowed, hard, already wan skin paling. “I couldn’t let that ritual succeed. I couldn’t...I...” His eyes flitted up to Iris, full of pain. 

“If it comes up.” She said quietly, so she was not overheard. “You did it to stop the spread of the plague. Drinking the blood of an infected person would be a death sentence for everyone there, including the second and third for the seat of Vesuvia. It would plunge Vesuvia into chaos. Understood?”

Asra nodded. Iris bit her lip. 

“I need you to do something during the trial.” She said quietly. 

“Anything.” 

“When I tell you, I need you to lend me your magic. I’m going to cast a spell, but I can’t do it of this magnitude on my own. It’ll be tricky, and risky. But I know I can do it if you’re at my side.” 

Asra nodded, but he looked slightly concerned. “I will, but...please be careful. My love.” 

Iris raised an eyebrow. “I always am.” This elicited a quiet chuckle from Asra. 

They were quiet a moment before Iris cleared her throat painfully. “The next question is personal.” She warned him, her hand drifted back between the bars, grasping at his; their fingers interlaced. “But it may come up today, depending on Valerius’s line of questioning. I need to know.” She made sure Portia was out of earshot, before darting her eyes back to Asra. 

“What is it?”

“You said before that you didn’t remember what bargain you struck with the Magician. Do you remember now?” She asked softly, squeezing his hand. “To convince the Magician and the Fool to give me the body instead?” 

Asra’s eyes fell; he looked so, so tired. For a moment, they were plunged into pained silence, before Asra placed his other hand over his chest, the mark directly over his heart; it glowed under his touch. Her clairvoyance whispered the answer softly in her ear before he opened his mouth to speak. 

“I had to give them something of yours, and something of mine. They settled for something that belonged to both of us.” Tears fell freely down his cheeks, his sweet face distorted with anguish. “Half of my heart.” Iris wanted to claw those horrible bars apart, force them open with her magic, slip in and out of the ether, to scream into the void until she threw up blood, anything to hold him now, to comfort him. She could only settle for touching his face, brushing the tears away. She had no idea what to say.

“I couldn’t bear to be without you, Iris.” He murmured, leaning into her touch. “No price was too steep to have you back in my arms.” He kissed her palm. “There are days when I wonder if I did the right thing – when I wonder if the true cost of what I’ve done is yet to come. But...” His eyes surged with love as he regarded her. “When I see you in front of me...when I watch you grow into the magnificent magician, the magnificent woman you once were...when I – when I hold you in my arms...” his voice cracked, eyes misting over. Iris was crying, too, biting her trembling lips as tears flowed. 

“Whatever happens today...” He whispered, his voice surging with passion. “Know that I love you. I love you so, so much. Each infinite version of you.” He placed his hand over hers on his cheek; Iris leaned forward as much as she could and placed her hand over the hand on his heart. The mark glowed even brighter. 

“I know, Asra. I love you, too. Each infinite version of you.” Iris’s eyes grew fierce now; she heard the guard approaching, their time up. “And nothing will happen to you today if I can help it. I have a few tricks up my sleeve.” 

“Oh, I know you do. I believe in you.” Asra’s eyes sparked with knowing mischief as he kissed her palm one last time; the guard, on the periphery, gently cleared his throat. With a small grimace, she pulled her hands out of Asra’s cell. 

“I’ll see you soon.” She murmured, and he smiled wanly in return. The guard led her away to where Portia was standing, her gaze steely. 

“We have less time than we thought.” She said quietly. “The guards have to prepare the prisoners for trial after the changeover in 15 minutes.” 

“That’s not enough time to speak to both Nadia and Julian.” Iris said, her gaze far away, biting her lip in thought. “We’ll have to split up.” 

“I’ll talk to Nadia.” Portia said, certainly. Iris raised a brow. 

“Are you sure? You don’t want to see your brother?” 

The handmaiden bit her lip, a flush rising on her cheeks. Iris let out a soft gasp, and grinned, wildly, stupidly. Portia looked so much like Julian in this moment...when he was flustered, thinking about her, or Asra. 

Iris squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “Of course! Of course. I want to see Julian, anyway.” Portia smiled gratefully, then threw her arms around Iris. 

“Give Ilya all my love.” She whispered. 

“I will.” They pulled away from each other, and Iris turned to the guard. “Take me to the Doctor, please.” Another guard appeared to whisk Portia away to Nadia.

The guards must have had orders to keep everyone as far away from each other as possible, because Iris and the guard walked for several minutes through the gently bending corridors before they arrived at a cell identical to Asra’s, lit with one meager torch that sputtered feebly in the damp. 

Julian was pacing in his cell, the chains that constrained his ankles chinking softly with each movement. The blanket over the cot was untouched; the food on a metal tray on the stony floor, uneaten. It was clear he hadn’t slept, the darkness under his eyes even more pronounced, his skin slightly sunken, waxy. 

Upon seeing him, Iris broke ahead of the guard and rushed to the iron gate, grasping at the bars; startled, he looked up, his eyes wide, before his face split into a grateful smile. His chains were a little longer than Asra’s; he was able to touch Iris’s face through the bars, but he wasn’t able to get close enough to hold her, to kiss her. 

“Look at you.” He said softly, his eyes affectionately tracing the softness of her painted face, her long neck, her hair, sculpted wildly with wax. “You’re a vision of beauty. Fierce beauty.” 

“Are they treating you okay?” Iris murmured, reaching through the bars to touch his face, just as she had Asra’s. She could practically feel the nervousness, the anxiety, radiating from him. 

He snorted. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a five-star hotel experience, but at least this time they’re feeding me.” 

Iris’s heart sank; she had nearly forgotten that he had once been arrested by the guard for the exact same crime, probably kept in these very cells before his confession was tortured out of him. 

She placed her other hand on his cheek, and pulled his gaze to hers. “I need you to listen carefully to me.” She said quietly. “I’m going to argue that Lucio is still alive, and that he was separated from his body by the ritual. You were at that ritual – I saw it. I know you don’t remember it, and neither does Nadia. Asra barely remembers it. But Muriel does, and Valerius does, too. We need to prove that Valerius was there, and that he knows. So I need you to do two things for me.” 

“Tell me what to do.” Julian responded, his jaw set, his gaze firm. 

Iris gulped. “The first is easy. I need you to show your gift. You’ll know when.” 

“Okay. The second?” 

Iris grinned now. “I need you to taunt Valerius. About his relationship with Lucio, about the ritual, about anything, truly. Be a pain in his ass. Make him angry. Throw him off his game. Can you do that?” 

Julian smirked wickedly. “Say no more. Pain in the ass is my middle name.” 

Iris stroked his cheeks with her thumbs; she wanted so badly to kiss him, to hold him. “Julian...I need to tell you. Some painful things may be said about you, about me, about Asra. Things that I...things I don’t have time to explain now. Be ready, and trust your gut. Trust me. Trust Asra, trust Portia. We have the truth on our side.” She met his gray gaze, so awash in the same affection she saw in her memory, her memories, the beautiful memories she still could not share with him. Her eyes began to mist over at the thought of never having the chance; she swallowed hard, trying and failing to keep the tears from falling from her eyes. “I’ll explain everything, I promise. Asra and I will.” 

“I trust you.” He said softly. He thumbed away a tear that dropped over her cheek. “Asra’s still on notice, but I trust you.” 

Iris snorted and laughed. “That’s a...weird thing to say about someone who’s been inside you.” 

It was Julian’s turn to laugh, one loud bark that split the oppressive silence of the dungeon as he smiled, a real smile, his lips pulled wide, all his teeth, beautiful, beautiful. Iris pulled her hands away from Julian’s face, letting them come to rest on his wrists; the warmth slowly melted from her face. 

“There’s something I need to say to you, Julian.” She whispered, her thumbs slowly tracing the place where his hand met his wrist, the edge of bone before flesh gave way to firm muscle. “This isn’t how I ever imagined saying this, or the place, or the time, but I would never forgive myself if...” she paused, and swallowed again. “...if something happened.” 

Julian leaned even closer to her, straining a little against his fetters. “I have something I want to say, too.” 

Iris shook; her lips trembled as she grasped his wrists harder. “I...I love you, Julian. I want to be with you. I’ve loved you for a long time.” More tears fell, and Iris grimaced in frustration. “Longer than either of us can remember...”

One of Julian’s hands dropped down to her chin, pulled her gaze to his, while the thumb of his other hand tugged at the corner of her lower lip. “I love you too, Iris. I don’t want to be without you.” His eye sparkled with passion. “My darling...my deadly starstrand.” 

Their faces were so close that being unable to kiss was brutally painful. Iris heard the guard approaching – he had given them even less time than with Asra. Sighing with frustration, Iris let go of Julian’s hands, but not before kissing the pad of his thumb, the root of each palm. 

“Portia sends her love.” Iris whispered. “She had to speak to Nadia.”

“I understand. Break a leg out there, darling.” He said softly, his eye twinkling. 

The guard whisked Iris away, and Iris strained her neck over her shoulder to see Julian, his pale face stark against the dark of the dungeon, before his cell faded from her view.

*******

The absolute din around the four of them was overwhelming as what must have been every body – man, woman, and everything in between, young and old, wise and foolish – poured into the coliseum, vying for good seats, but Iris hardly heard it. She paced the floor of the spectator’s box that now served as the defendant’s anteroom, her mind and heart racing. In her head, she was mapping the branches of her argument, Valerius’ potential objections, the suggestions and tips Natiqa had coached her through.

A soft, warm hand fell on her shoulder; she looked down, started, to find light blue eyes regarding her beneath furrowed brows, framing a freckle nose, riotous curls. “You need to relax, Iris.” Portia murmured, her voice low. 

At the redhead’s side, Muriel watched Iris warily. Without thinking, she read him, and saw he was concerned for her, anxious she would get flustered and falter on the stand. Instinctually, she placed her hand on a muscled forearm, cloaked in linen. He looked strange to her in palace garb; how Portia had rustled up clothing his size, Iris had no idea. But the camel-colored peasant shirt, the embroidered brown vest, the silken green trousers, the fine leather boots, somehow suited him, though he looked extremely uncomfortable. 

“Don’t fret.” She whispered to him. “We have the truth on our side.” 

He didn’t meet her eyes, but replied quietly, “That’s not been enough before.” Iris bit her lip, readying her reply, but there was a commotion behind them, at the door to the stone corridor that connected the box to the Plebeian seats around them. 

“I swear t’te gods, we _know_ her! We ‘ave sometin for her!” A familiar voice cried angrily, boisterously. Iris cried out, and rushed to the guards, shouldering through them to embrace Aster, lifting her up and twirling her. As she set Aster down, she felt Dara’s heavy palm on her shoulder, the welcoming smell of cannabis, cooking oil, and new world rye rushing into her nostrils. 

The two guards at the door to the box shifted forward, but Iris rounded on them with a snarl; they backed away. With a hand on each of their backs, Iris spirited them into the box with Portia, Muriel, and Bludmila, who shifted from foot to foot nervously, still in his guard’s uniform. 

“Girl, I dunno how you got yourself into tis mess, but it’s a fine mess indeed.” Aster said quietly. “You got a plan?” 

“We have a plan.” Iris said quietly, embracing her old friend again. She had no idea how much she wanted to be held until she had strong, slender, familiar arms to hold her close. 

“Is there anything we can do?” Dara asked, his voice gruff and low. Iris shook her head, letting her hand touch his arm gently, before startling. 

“Yes...yes! There is something you can do.” She said, turning to Portia, before wheeling back to Aster and Dara her eyes wide. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. “You can incite the crowd. Rabble-rouse. Be loud and rowdy. Cheer for us.” Iris’s heart was racing now. “It’s a court of public opinion. You could sway the crowd.” 

Aster’s mouth split into her signature gap-toothed grin. “Bish, consider it done.” Dara guffawed beside his wife, wrapping a large palm around her waist.

Iris could cry. “Oh, thank you. Thank you both.” She hugged Aster again; the wiry barkeep laughed, smiling wickedly. 

“I thought you could use a bit o’ good luck.” From the folds of her cloak, she pulled a bottle of crystal clear Nivenese gorzalka. If Iris could orgasm from sight alone, it would be from the sight of that bottle; gorzalka was exceedingly rare, made by only one traditional distiller on the smallest islands of the Nivenese archipelago. They produced only 50 bottles a year.

“Holy shit, Aster.” Iris said quietly as her friend unscrewed the silver cap and offered the bottle to her. “This is more expensive than Golden Goose.” 

Aster and Dara exchanged knowing glances. “We were saving it for when Asra finally made an honest woman of ya.” Aster said quietly. “But now seemed as good’a time as any. T’your success on the battlefield.” She winked. 

Iris brought the bottle to her lips and took a healthy swig. It tasted like nothing, and burned only the tiniest bit as the mouthful slipped down her throat. “Fuck.” She said quietly, before passing the bottle back to Aster, but she handed it to Portia. 

“I’m Aster, luv. Nice to meet ya.” Portia took the bottle from Aster and took a swig, bigger than Iris’s. She wiped her mouth as she handed the bottle over to Bludmila, who took a swig without saying anything. 

“Portia Devorak, handmaiden to Countess Nadia.” She stuck her hand out to Aster, who shook it heartily. “I know of you. You own the Rowdy Raven in the Southside.” 

Aster’s eyes twinkled. “Guilty as charged. You said Devorak?”

“The very same. Julian’s my older brother, though he doesn’t often act like it.” 

Aster tsked playfully. “Are ya as much trouble as ‘im? If so, you’re welcome at te Raven anytime.” 

Bludmila had passed the bottle to Muriel now, who stared at it as if he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Iris patted his arm and took the bottle from Bludmila, making to pass it back to Aster, but, with one swift movement, Muriel grabbed it and took a long drink, longer than any of the others. When he was done, he handed it back to Iris, blushing fiercely. 

“This is Muriel.” Iris said quietly, though she couldn’t keep the amused smile from cracking across her face; she could feel the alcohol coursing hotly through her veins, not enough to make her drunk, but enough to help her relax. “He’s an old friend of Asra’s, and mine.” 

Aster smiled warmly, and opened her mouth to say something, but there was a heavy clacking of wood on wood, magically amplified to echo cacophonously through the coliseum. 

“Order, order!” Praetor Vlastomil practically had to scream in order to be heard, despite the amplification of his voice. 

Aster slipped a kiss onto Iris’s cheek and whispered, “Kill ‘em dead, girl. You got tis.” She and Dara slipped out of the box without another word. Beside her, Portia squeezed her shoulder one last time before slipping back into the witness’s line. 

The Praetor’s voice rang out again. “Will the prosecutor please present themselves?” 

It was several long moments as Valerius descended the long stone staircase that connected the prosecutor’s anteroom to the arena, where a large wooden stage had been constructed hastily. At the stage’s center, the three accused stood, mercifully in their fresh clothing (Iris had wondered if the guards would even let them change), each flanked by a guard. Iris had been purposefully avoiding looking at the stage, lest her heart twist, her courage fade; the mere sight of Nadia and her lovers in chains made her so afraid, and so angry. She didn’t want to lose her focus. 

There were both loud cheers and angry boos that rose up from the audience as Valerius now mounted the stage, again in his full Consul regalia, the shamshir slung across his hips, a burgundy cloak slung over his tawny robes, draped with thick ropes of gleaming gold. 

“Who defends the interests of Vesuvia in this trial and brings forward the accusations of collusion and murder of Count Lucio toward Doctor Julian Nikolyavitch Devorak, the magician Asra Salim Niraj-Alnazar, and the Countess, Princess Nadia Aditi Satrinava?” The Praetor’s voice rang out. Iris’s heart pounded; this was it. The trial was formally starting. 

The Consul’s voice boomed through the coliseum, magically amplified by the yellow coneflower that was pinned on his collarbone; Iris activated her white one with a gentle touch, feeling its coolness seep through her fingers, her throat. 

“I am Consul Nero Valerius the Seventh, Advisory to the seat of Vesuvia, Member of the Countess’s chamber, and Ninth Seat of the Vesuvian Juris. I defend the interests of the Vesuvian Aristocrata.” His voice, normally so snide and whiny, was now sonorant and powerful; he sounded like a completely different person. 

The coliseum filled again with cheers and boos in equal measure. The Praetor’s voice resounded again. “And will the representative for the defendants present themselves?” 

That was Iris’s cue. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and focused her magic inward, towards her very center, her heart, imagining herself on the stage next to Valerius. 

She felt her body fold into the suffocating void, and a split-second later, burst onto the stage in a flash of white light, white rose petals and gold flake fluttering around her; she heard the crowd gasp, and she lowered her white velvet hood before flinging her cloak dramatically around to her side. 

She was dressed entirely in white, her outfit carefully chosen by her, Portia, and Navra this morning. She wore an exquisite crushed velvet bodice with lush, tasseled Drakrian fabric draped around her hips, embroidered all over in silver and gold; underneath it all, she wore full-body gauze slip with bell-sleeves that billowed and floated at her sides, flowed and flounced around her long legs, detailed with the most delicate white lace. She wore many necklaces of gold and silver, including the giant moon-shaped emerald, as well as stacks of mismatched rings, several gold and silver hoops and small studs running up her earlobes and cartilage into the very whorls of her ears. Though Portia had wanted her to wear shoes, she insisted she go barefoot, a choice she knew now was the right decision. With her fierce make-up and wild, wavy blonde hair, she looked the part of the white witch, just as they planned. 

The audience held its collective breath now, and Iris didn’t dare look back at them. The Praetor stammered, taken aback at her showy display; she couldn’t help but smirk as he asked her: “Who defends the interests of the defendants in this trial against accusations of collusion and murder of Count Lucio toward Doctor Julian Nikolyavitch Devorak, the magician Asra Salim Niraj-Alnazar, and the Countess, Princess Nadia Aditi Satrinava?” 

Iris squared her shoulders, and spoke clearly but softly, her even voice resonating through the coliseum. 

“My name is Iris Selene Keshet. I am the apprentice of the magician Asra Salim Niraj-Alnazar, and a magician in my own right. From Lucio year 15 to Lucio year 17, I was a Fool in Lucio’s court, under Countess Nadia Aditi Satrinava’s household; I studied during that time under Doctor Julian Nikolyavitch Devorak, to assist with the research to find a cure for the Red Plague.” She paused, waiting for the crowd to react; it roiled with murmurs and chatter, gossip. She knew that some remembered her, that some knew her now as Asra’s apprentice. She knew that some would remember that she had once died, years ago. 

Besides her, the Consul blinked back his surprise at Iris’s theatrics, her quiet boldness, her fierceness. She let her eyes flit to him once, a small smirk playing across her face, before her gaze rose to the box. The Praetor sat in the front of what used to be the Count’s private box, and behind him sat the presiding eight members of the Juris; she could see Natiqa’s sapphire hair gleaming in the noonday sun. 

The Praetor snapped out of his shock. “Have you both prepared your arguments?” 

The Consul opened his mouth, but Iris stepped forward, holding up a hand to silence him in a dramatic gesture, one that made the billowing fabric of her skirt and sleeves dance. 

“Good Praetor, I have not prepared arguments to convince you that the defendants did not kill the Count. Instead, I have prepared arguments that the Count was not killed at all.” 

There was another collective gasp around the coliseum; at her side, Valerius tsked with frustration. 

“We have eyewitnesses that confirm that the Count was killed by Doctor Devorak.” Valerius sneered. “This accusation is preposterous.” 

“We will allow it!” A voice behind the Praetor called. Iris saw that Natiqa was standing in front of her seat, hand raised high; several of the members of the Juris also had their hands raised, enough for a majority. “The Representative may argue against the premise.” She cried. Iris smiled a private smile. Natiqa wasn’t kidding when she said she would handle the Juris. 

“Defendant, how will you prove this?” Vlastomil asked, his slimy voice rising. “When the Prosecution has eyewitnesses to the crime?” 

Iris raised an eyebrow. “By shining the light on what the eyewitnesses saw.” With a showy gesture and a flash of white light, she produced Asra’s spellbook from the ether, and turned to face the majority of the coliseum. She let her eyes flit over the faces of Asra, Julian, and Nadia, and snickered a little at their expressions. Nadia’s eyes were wide, but otherwise, her face was even; Julian’s jaw was absolutely slack with mock-shock (an actor to his very bones), and Asra...Asra’s eyes were alight with adoration and pride, a small, playful smile on his lips. 

Iris held the book aloft, and spoke clearly. “This spellbook is called _The Arcana: Rituals, Summons, and Covenants_. It outlines how to commune with the Arcana, the archetypes of human nature that guide us all, and how to bind yourself in bargains with them, should you choose. Through my investigations, I’ve discovered that Lucio attempted to bind himself to the Fool’s body in an attempt to save himself from the Red Plague.” 

Iris paused again, her lips parted, as the crowd boiled with confusion. She spoke again, her mellisonant voice cutting through the din. “On the night of January 13th, Lucio 18, Count Lucio was dying. For nearly two and half years, he had been battling the Red Plague, aided by the skillful care of Doctor Devorak and the research done by the army of doctors, healers, and mystics that searched for the cure at the palace’s beckoning.” 

She summoned Julian’s medical journal now, with the same flash of light, into her other hand; she held both it and the spellbook aloft for the audience to see. “In this journal, my first piece of evidence, you will find the meticulous notes the Doctor took regarding the Count’s treatment, from year 15 until his death in year 18, as well as his status on the night of the ritual, the Count’s 38th birthday. Please see the earmarked page.” A young porter approached her, and she handed the journal to her; she scurried it up to the box where the Praetor and the Juris resided. 

She didn’t wait for the Juris to confirm, flipping through the pages of the spellbook. “The Count was desperate. Medical science wasn’t working, so he turned to the Arcane, consulting with one of the magicians and healers working in his court, Asra Salim Niraj-Alnazar. Asra told him of a ritual that might allow him to bind his spirit to a new body – the body of the Fool, the first and last and most infinite of the Arcana, who represents the untapped, unending potential in us all.” The porter was just returning as Iris flipped the to ritual; Iris handed the book to her, indicating the page. “The ritual is called _Borrowing the Fool’s Body: Cure the Sick, Heal the Crippled, and Resurrect the Dead_. It is my second piece of evidence.” 

“Praetor, am I ever to get a word in edgewise on this soliloquy?” Valerius practically hissed. The Praetor nodded. 

“The Magician Iris has presented two pieces of evidence to the Juris now. It seems only fair that you present two of your witnesses, Consul.” The Praetor said, a slimy smile sneaking across his face. Iris’s skin crawled. 

The Consul smiled haughtily. “I’d like to call to the stand Pontifex Vulgora and Procurator Volta.” 

There was an audible scuffle on the wooden stairs up to the platform; it seemed that they were fighting over who would ascend first, but Vulgora, being not only massive but significantly stronger, shouldered their rotund frame against Volta’s slight one, completely overtaking her. They scrambled up ungainfully, Vulgora then Volta, into the small area set up for the witnesses, complete with chairs and a table. 

Valerius’s lip curled. “Esteemed Courtiers, you were witness to the fire that killed Count Lucio. Tell us in your own words what happened.” 

It was Vulgora spoke up; they were so loud they hardly needed the coneflower that amplified their voice. “We went to check up on our dear friend and beloved ruler Count Lucio, who had been so sick as of late. But when we arrived on the scene, the room was already up in flames!” Volta chewed on her fingernails; she said nothing to corroborate Vulgora’s story. She looked absolutely terrified. 

Iris furrowed her brows. “Did you see who set the fire?” She asked Vulgora, crossing one arm across her waist, letting the fingers of her other hand touch her chin gently, as if in thought. 

Vulgora’s fingers tightened into a fist. “We didn’t see who set the blaze, but we saw the Doctor himself run out of the room. We apprehended him, tackling him to the ground, before hauling him down to the dungeons.” 

“...But did you see Doctor Devorak set the fire?” Iris asked calmly. 

Vulgora’s pencil-thin brows furrowed with frustration. “He was _running out of the flaming room_." They said slowly, as if Iris was an idiot. "That's enough evidence for me.” 

“But it may not be enough evidence for Vesuvia.” Iris said quietly, and she heard cheers behind her, a roar of applause. She thought she heard Aster’s voice cut through the noise, screaming her name. “I’d like to call my first witnesses to the stand, the Handmaiden Portia and the Lieutenant Bludmila.”

It took a moment for the two to trot down the stairs and climb up to the platform, but Iris was patient, even as Valerius shifted agitatedly next to her. She was surprised; she was hardly getting started, and he already seemed flustered. 

Iris turned back to the city. “Page 394 of the spellbook I presented to the Juris outlines what will happen if the ritual that binds the Fool’s body to the benefactor is successful, and if it fails. If it is successful, it will take three days for the spirit to fully merge with the Fool’s body, a painful process called throning. It can feel like a consuming fever, the worst sickness of your life, and pain worse than childbirth. Unfortunately, if the ritual fails, the same thing will occur, only after three days, the benefactor’s old body will burst into flames after it finally releases the spirit, only to not have a body to bind to.” Iris turned back to Portia and Bludmila. 

“Portia, Bludmila. You are both servants at the Countess Nadia’s palace, correct?"

Both nodded. 

“And you were both responsible for presiding over the cleaning Lucio’s old bedchamber, in preparation for the masquerade?” 

“That’s right.” Portia said quietly. Besides her, Bludmila nodded.

“Please explain to the Vesuvian people what you noticed regarding the bedchamber, which was supposedly consumed in flames, according to Pontifex Vulgora.” Iris said, barely disguising the doubt in her voice. 

Portia nodded. “While the Countess was cloistered for the last three years, the Chamber neglected to have the Count’s bedchambers restored, so when we arrived to clean it, it was in the same state as the night it caught flames.” Portia took a deep breath. “Everything was still intact. The bed, the curtains, the rugs, the books, the furniture. Nothing had burned, but everything was coated in a fine layer of ash.” 

With an arched brow, Iris turned to Bludmila. “Can you confirm this, Lieutenant?” 

“Yes.” Bludmila said quietly. “The room was exactly as I remember when the Count resided there, save for the ash.” 

“And you have been in the employ of the palace for quite some time, correct, Lieutenant Bludmila?” Iris asked. 

He nodded again. “7 years. Both my wife and I were palace guards at the height of the plague, before she and our unborn child succumbed to it."

Iris startled, shocked. This was the most she had ever heard Bludmila speak, and to admit something so private, in front of the whole city... “Bludmila, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” She touched his arm, squeezing gently; she hoped her sincerity would reach him. “Your candor is astounding, and admirable.”

Behind her, she could practically feel Valerius’s glare boring into her back. “This proves nothing.” He muttered. “They could easily be lying.” 

Iris turned back to him, one dark eyebrow arched. “You don’t trust the word of your own lieutenant, Valerius, especially after such vulnerability? Isn’t Bludmila under your employ, one of your second-in-commands?” The susurrus of the crowd as it whispered and gossiped behind them was like a flock of birds taking flight, startling and deafening.

Valerius lip curled fully now. “What does it prove if the fire only partially burnt the room?” 

Iris smiled, gesturing dramatically with one finger. “I’m glad you asked, Consul.” She turned now to the Praetor and the Juris. “Could someone please read the seventh paragraph on page 394 of _The Arcana_?” 

A woman in the seat opposite from Natiqa in the first curved row stood and approached the ledge of the box, at the Praetor’s elbow. Her skin was the color of sienna, large, dawn-green eyes amplified by the thick frames of her eyeglasses, her hair in tight, springy curls. She wore a deliriously beautiful Kashtan bodywrap, one that accentuated her shape, her curves. She held the book out in front of her elegantly as she read in a clear, lilting voice. 

“The body of the benefactor will be consumed with marked flames. The marked flames will touch nothing but the benefactor’s body, leaving only the discarded body exhausted. If the spirit has not properly throned to the Fool’s body, it will be left in stasis between the mortal realm and the arcane realm, unable to pass through Death’s gate.”

Iris turned now to the Courtiers. “Pontifex Vulgora. Procurator Volta. You said that you apprehended the Doctor running out of a burning room, but was he harmed at all? Surely running into flames, he would have sustained some injuries? Singed hair and clothing, burns?” 

It was Valerius who spoke, his voice booming, reverberating through the coliseum. “A lack of burns on the Doctor’s body does not prove that he did not set the fire, esteemed lady.” He grinned viciously now. “Though I use that term loosely. Does the public know you are sleeping with two of the accused?” 

Iris raised an eyebrow; she had expected him to attempt to discredit her, but as she opened her mouth to rebut, Julian beat her to it, his pale face twisted into a withering leer. “And you were bottoming for Lucio, you sniveling little shit! What does it matter?” 

“You’re one to talk!” Valerius shot back, eyes blazing, but Iris silenced him with an open palm, a smile creeping across her face. He was cracking, getting angry, just as Natiqa said he would. She only hoped that Julian would pay no heed to the Consul’s barb. 

“It’s no secret that I live with Asra, and have for the last three years. We share a business together, and a bed. He is my partner. Only an imbecile wouldn’t recognize the nature of our relationship.” She let her eyes flit to him for a moment, encouraged by the warm smile he gave her, pride still simmering behind his eyes. She smiled lovingly back at him, letting her expression wash over with adoration. “The only thing that may not be clear at first glance is that we choose not to limit our love to just each other. Our relationship is open.”

“As for the Doctor and me...” She caught his gray eye, letting a wide, knowing smirk cross her lips as he blushed faintly. “We were lovers when we worked together at the palace, and we reunited when he returned to Vesuvia. This is true.” She smiled wickedly as the crowd roared behind her in approval. “Something, it sounds like, the Vesuvian public doesn’t give two actual shits about, Valerius.” 

“Watch your tongue, Magician!” The Praetor shouted, gavel banging. Iris pursed her lips into an exaggerated frown, and some of the crowd booed at the Praetor. Iris ignored him pointedly and turned back to the Courtiers. 

“Would you be so kind to answer my question from before? Was the Doctor harmed at all when you saw him run out of the room?” 

It was Volta who answered, her voice shaky. “The good Doctor did not seemed to be burned or singed, though he was certainly harmed when Vulgora slammed him into the wall when she apprehended him.”

Iris cinched her brows. “Very interesting. Can you tell me more?” 

Volta trembled, her one good eye flitting nervously to Vulgora beside her, who fairly growled with annoyance. “The Doctor confessed to nothing at first.” She whimpered. “It was only after Valerius and Vulgora interrogated him that he confessed to killing the Count.” 

Iris nodded. “Thank you, Volta.” She turned back to the public. 

“You may have heard that the Doctor confessed to the crime of killing the Count. This is true. The confession, however, is not valid, by a decree of the Countess that was voted into law mere days ago. This new law disallows confessions retrieved through torture to be admissible in court.” She turned to Julian now, her eyes warm and sad like summer rain. “Doctor, can you describe the methods that were used to extract the confession from you?” 

Iris had purposefully not told Julian she would ask him this. She trusted him, but she wanted his true reaction, not a rehearsed one, for the sake of convincing the public. Her heart twisted as he trembled, swinging his eye to her. “I’m sorry.” She mouthed to him, imperceptibly. 

“Turquas.” He said quietly, all of the color draining from his face; he didn’t break his gaze from hers. “They split the fingernail in half, then pull them from the nail bed.” 

Iris gulped; she could feel herself shaking, her hands aching to embrace him. “Thank you, Julian.” She wheeled to Valerius now, and with another dramatic gesture and flash of light, summoned from the void a scroll of paper, provided to her this morning by Portia from the palace records, which she unrolled. “This matches your official recount of the confession, Consul.” She pointed to his seal, in blood-red wax, on the bottom of the scroll. “I submit this as my third piece of evidence to the Juris.” The young porter gently took it out of her hands, as Iris did not break her gaze from the Consul. 

“If the confession cannot be used in this court, Magician, why bring it up?” Valerius jeered. 

Iris’s gaze simmered, her lip lifting slightly. “To illustrate the power and cruelty of the Count and the Chamber, dear Consul. To frame the account of my next witness.” She lowered her voice. “If he would please join us.” 

The frame of the makeshift stage fairly shook as Muriel descended the stairs; there was some tittering from the public, hushed whispers and gossiping, as he took his place beside Portia and Bludmila. Portia gave him a small smile and touched the back of his arm; he blushed very faintly, and affection for him bloomed quietly in Iris. 

“Can you tell the public who you are...and who you were when you worked for the Count?” Iris asked softly. 

Muriel cleared his throat loudly; the coneflower magnified even the gravelly rumble of his deep voice. “My name is Muriel. I live in the woods, and I raise chickens.” He paused, allowing himself one careful inhalation, one low exhalation. “….For years, Lucio compelled me to serve as his private bodyguard, and...” He wavered, searching for words. Iris waited patiently, smiled encouragingly. Muriel met her eyes for only a moment; Iris could already see they were welling up. “..and as an executioner.” 

“In this very coliseum.” Iris said quietly. She heard gasps from the crowd, more tittering, though it sounded to her on the stage like a roar. “You were called the Scourge of the South then, is that right?” 

Muriel raised his misty gaze to her, his jaw stony. “Yes.” 

“And how many people did Lucio force you to kill for him?” Iris asked quietly. 

“Objection!” Valerius shouted. “What is the point of this line of questioning?” 

“I concur!” The Praetor cried, his gavel banging once, but from the corner of her eye, Iris saw Natiqa stand again. 

“Overruled!” She cried, her hand raised. Iris saw that the hand of every single member of the Juris was raised beside her. 

The Praetor whined, and Valerius sneered, but Iris didn’t let her expression waver as she turned back to Muriel. “I’m so sorry, but I need you to answer this question.” 

Muriel closed his eyes, and a tear slid down his cheek. “Hundreds. At least one every day, for years.” 

Iris shuddered visibly. “Can you tell me why you agreed to do this?” 

Muriel nodded, another tear falling. “To protect a friend.” 

“Is that friend here?” Muriel nodded once more, and Iris stepped aside so he could fully see the accused. “Can you point to them?” 

Without hesitation, Muriel pointed a thick, callused finger to Asra. Iris turned to Asra. 

“Asra, can you tell the people why you agreed to work in the palace during the search for the plague’s cure?” 

Asra’s eyes sparked furiously. “To protect Muriel from Lucio. So I thought.” 

Iris bit her lip, and held her arms out wide, one hand towards Muriel, one hand towards Asra, before she addressed the public. “The Count, in his cruelty, tricked these dear friends, destitute orphans in his city, to do his bidding by threatening violence against each other. And the Chamber, the Courtiers, including the Consul, allowed this.” 

“Objection!” The Consul cried again. “Speculation!” 

“Your entire argument is speculation, you soft city boy!” Julian yelled. “Your parents could bribe your way through law school, but they can’t buy you brains!” Valerius’ eyes nearly popped out of his head as he bared his teeth angrily at Julian.

The Praetor banged his gavel in concurrence, and the Juris did not overrule it. Iris turned back to Muriel. “Did the Count force you to participate in the ritual?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can you explain the ritual to us?” Iris asked. 

Muriel nodded slowly. “It was a dinner...party. Each of the guests represented one of the Major Arcana, and we were each served our favorite food and drink. Once we were fed, we were asked to appeal to the Arcana they represented.” 

“How was that facilitated?” Iris prodded. 

“Each of the plates and cups were etched with a spell that compelled the Arcana down to the representative.” Muriel swallowed. “We were then supposed to appeal or bargain with the Arcana to ask the Fool to bind Lucio to their body.” 

Iris paused, her voice softening. “Which Arcana came to you, Muriel?” 

Muriel chewed on the inside of his lip, and color rose to his cheeks. “The Hermit.” 

“And were you successful in appealing to The Hermit?” Iris asked quietly. 

Muriel met Iris’s steady gaze. “Yes. He gave me a gift.” 

“Did everyone who appealed to an Arcana receive a gift that night?” Iris asked quietly. 

Muriel nodded. “They received a gift...or paid a price.”

Iris took a deep breath, bracing herself for what she was about to do next. With one swift movement, she reached between the folds of her skirt to unsheathe her athame, attached to her thigh with a leather cord. She turned to the audience and, with one long, fluid movement, she dragged the knife over the bare skin of her forearm, from the seam of her wrist to the crook of her elbow. 

The crowd gasped and nearly rioted as blood flowed heavily, freely, down her arm, staining the white gauze of her slip, dripping off her elbow in rivulets. Already, she could feel herself becoming lightheaded; shakily, she held her arm out in Julian’s direction. 

There was a scuffle as several voices shouted her name, and she felt her legs wobble before cool, bare hands fell onto her arm. She sank to her knees; strong, warm arms steadied her as Julian’s gift sewed her veins, her skin, back together with bright, arcing light, the blood drawing itself back into her body. 

It was Asra who was holding her, his arms protectively wrapped around her waist as he lowered her into his lap, his lips in her hair; she could feel his heart pounding in tandem with hers, nearly hammering out of his ribs. At their side, Julian winced as blood bloomed from his arm, staining the fine white shirt he wore. Iris had made sure that the cut was not enough to put him or her in danger, that he would heal quickly, but the amount of blood still made her stomach twist; she resisted the urge to bury her face into Asra’s neck, to cry. Nadia was hovering over them, her hand covering her mouth in shock, her eyes wide, misty. Her mark was glowing on her forehead.

Then, Iris snapped back to reality; Julian’s mark shimmered on his throat while his body healed itself, and, to her shock, Asra’s mark over his heart pulsed, too. She stood, a little shakily, and gestured to the marks on their bodies to the public. 

“Asra, Julian, and Nadia were guests at the same ritual, and they each made a bargain.” Iris said, her voice still shaky. She couldn’t help but grasp Julian’s bare hand, the branded one. “Nadia traded the memories of her broken marriage to unlock her premonitory sight. Julian gained the ability to heal the sick and wounded, as long as he took on their pain himself. And Asra...” She turned to him, her eyes swimming. “He gave up a part of himself for someone very dear to him.” 

There was another roar of confusion from the public, and Iris couldn’t help but smile as her strength returned to her. Behind them, Valerius, who had been frozen in shock, melted now into disdain. “None of this proves that the ritual happened, only that you are able to pull off some impressive illusion magicks, witch. These kinds of theatrics will not be tolerated...” Valerius’s voice faded away as his gaze fell on the figure that loomed at the staircase. 

Iris grinned as her eyes fell on Muriel. While Julian tended to Iris, Muriel had left the stage, only to return moments later, just as the two of them had planned. He had removed his shirt and vest, and though Iris could not see it, she knew that half of the city could see the starlike light shimmering from Muriel’s back as Valerius’ gaze traced his hulking form, his eyes widening with not-recognition. 

“Do you not remember Muriel, Consul?” Iris asked wickedly, her grin snaking into a scowl. 

“Who?” Valerius said wildly, loudly, turning to Iris, his brow furrowed with anger, confusion. 

“Muriel. The representative of the Hermit.” Iris explained quietly, gesturing to him as Muriel put his shirt back on. “The Hermit gave him the gift of obscurity. He is immediately forgotten by those who meet him, unless he gives them a gift, and they keep that gift on their person.” She pulled the leather pouch on the lanyard out from the fabric of her bodice. At her side, Asra touched the lanyard around his throat, his eyes steely. 

The audience roared once again, but Iris could not tell if it was from confusion, or entertainment, or gratification. She was breathing heavily, her heart pounding. The part that came next would be the hardest. 

Valerius was flushed and furious now; above them the Praetor trembled and cowered, and Vulgora fumed while Volta clutched her face in pure confusion. 

“This _still_ proves nothing!” Valerius cried. “Your entire argument about this absurd ritual is preceded on the fact that it failed – but can you _prove_ it failed?”

Iris smiled softly, and stepped away from the three crowded around her, though she touched Asra’s wrist very gently, hoping he would understand to stay close as she approached Valerius, getting up in his face. 

“I can prove it happened, Nero; I can prove it failed because the Count didn’t gather enough representatives. And I can prove you were there.” 

“That’s preposterous. Absurd.” Valerius said, quietly, his face reddening. Iris chuckled. 

“So, the Count didn’t carefully source several bottles of rare Highnoon Rendezvous just for you? Or ask the kitchens to slave over a pot of Francish boeuf bourguignon with wild-foraged field mushrooms for hours?” Iris grinned wolfishly now. “He didn’t kiss your neck and tell you he wished you could sit at his side, so he could eyefuck you all night while palming your crotch like teenager? And then sent you with a smack of your ass into the very strict arms of the Hierophant, who probably made you pay dearly and bodily for your appeal?”

“Oh, I’m sure Lucio eyefucked the Consul just the same.” Julian growled venomously. “They could barely keep their hands off of each other at court. They would practically hump in Nadia’s presence. It was disgusting.” 

“Silence, you uncertified hack!” The Consul practically shrieked. 

Julian raised his eyebrows, grinning tauntingly, wickedly, as Iris bit her lip, biding her time. “This uncertified hack kept your precious daddy alive when Death should have collected her due.” Julian purred. 

Valerius looked like he might explode, his sneer was so wide, his face so red. “How DARE you speak of Death with that monstrosity at your side? I’m not the one wetting their dick in a walking corpse!”

Iris had to move. “NOW, Asra!” She cried, reaching one arm back to him. She felt his strong fingers interlace with hers, and his magic flowed through her, practically branding her veins as it swam and melted into hers, making her aura pulse visibly around her, the opalesque light tinted an undulating lilac-lavender. In the same motion, she breached the distance between her and the Consul, placing the thumb of her other hand on dip of his throat, wrapping her fingers around his neck, shoving his chin upwards. She plunged into his psyche, searching for the memory swimming to the forefront of his mind: there. **_There_**. 

Iris felt the memory surge through her like backdraft, her body becoming strange conduit as her eyes glowed fearsomely white. Her neck rolled back as her mouth opened, the images flowing out of her eyes, the voices out of her mouth, projected upward and outward for all of Vesuvia to see. 

_Valerius was seated alone; no, he was just surrounded by empty chairs. Two empty seats away, Nadia and Asra were chatting amicably but quietly, too far away from him to join. On his other side was the hulking Scourge, a favorite plaything of the Count’s, still dressed in the gruesome furs and chains from the battlefield; even from three seats away, Valerius could smell the sickening scent of blood mingled with dust._

_Across from him was an aching row of empty chairs on one side, each piled high with something delectable that would no doubt go to waste, rather than be fed to the destitute. On the other was a cluster of his fellow courtiers, Vlastomil, Valdemar, Volta, and Vulgora; sandwiched between all of them was Doctor Devorak, whose brow shifted and arched in unadulterated annoyance as the Courtiers squabbled around him. With every violent crack of a lobster’s shell, he seemed to be imagining cracking their skulls together._

_Valerius twirled the wine in his glass before taking what would not be called a sip, but a desperate gulp. The boeuf bourguignon in front of him was exquisite, and the Highnoon Rendezvous divine, but he was bored, and annoyed, and now bordering on drunk. He swung his eyes to the once-handsome blonde man at the head of the table, grinning like an absolute idiot, drinking Sonnet Lore even though he was on the precipice of Death. His eyes met Valerius’s, and he winked devilishly, wetting his lips with his tongue. Valerius threw back the rest of his drink, apprehension souring in his mouth._

With a strangled howl, Iris pulled away, unable to sustain the memory any longer. She fell back into Asra’s arms, her head splitting with pain; he was panting alongside her, his temples and neck shining with sweat. The crowd was fairly roaring with confusion, with anger, with dissent – it worked. **It worked**. They had seen. 

In front of her, Valerius shook with anger, with anguish; his lip fairly trembled when he spoke next. “How _dare_ you touch me, you homuncular wench!” He whispered fiercely, though it was caught by the coneflower, echoing poisonously through the arena. Asra’s grip tightened around Iris and wrenched her back protectively, pulling her behind him as he raised a hand, his magic arching visibly. Julian, behind them, tensed in front of the Countess, whose lips were warped into a scowl that could topple empires. The guards did nothing to stop them, to restrain them; they, and Bludmila, were ready to move, their eyes trained on Valerius. 

The gavel banged frantically against the soundblock as the Praetor attempted to regain control. “Order! Order, I say!” He screeched; Iris didn’t think it was possible for him to seem slimier, but he was sweating now; the sheen on his skin was visible from the stage. But the crowd didn’t heed him, instead booing and hissing, screaming at him and the other Courtiers. 

Iris steadied herself in Asra’s arms before standing again, her eyes cold on the Consul. When she spoke, she addressed the public. 

“Vesuvia, these are the people who’ve lead you for three years while the Countess was cloistered away. They’ve let your poor starve, your destitute wander, your taxes go straight into their pockets, your wonders sink like Atlantis into the sea.” Despite her exhaustion, she felt her magic sparkling in her hands, her body. “And they’ve lied to you. They’ve deceived you. They’ve let you believe that the Count was killed by the Doctor, when truly, they let the Count rush ahead with a ritual that was doomed to fail from the start. So they could selfishly hold onto their power.” 

Valerius was frantic now, his face ferocious as he fairly shrieked, “The ritual failed because _he_ sabotaged it! To bring _his little whore_ back from the grave!” He pointed dramatically at Asra, the veins in his neck popping as he continued. “He is responsible for the demise of the Count, for the chaos in Vesuvia, and you have proven it!” 

A white knuckled, branded hand tightened around Iris’s wrist now, shaking visibly. Iris placed her hand over Julian’s and squeezed; she dare not meet his gaze now, though she could feel his eyes entreating her, imploring her to look at him. On her other side, Asra’s face darkened frighteningly, and he fairly growled when he responded. “I saved you from dying from plague by drinking the Count’s blood. The ritual was doomed before we even began; he didn’t have enough representatives. There was no point in letting you, and Nadia, and the Courtiers, and my friends, die in vain.” 

“It’s _very convenient_ , then, that you and your pretty fool were reunited after her untimely end then, isn’t it?” Valerius scowled. “You had _no_ ulterior motives to bring your little bedwarmer back?” 

“That is enough.” Nadia stepped forward now, her garnet eyes fiery. She had not said a word the whole trial, and now, in her regal purple kimono-style robes, her belt embroidered with lavender blooms and asters, emeralds gleaming against her flawless skin, she looked otherworldly and terrifying in her power. “This has gone on far too long.” 

She took Iris’s hand now, and spoke loudly; her voice echoed through the coliseum without amplification. “Vesuvia, the magician Iris and the dear Consul have shown you their evidence. Are you ready to decide our fates?”

The wall of noise that blasted from the crowd was so deafening that Iris’s head pounded, making her eyes water and swim. Nadia smirked. 

“Those who believe us guilty, raise your voices to the Gods!” She cried. There was a dull, gentle roar, but it died away quickly. 

“And those who believe us innocent, raise your voices to the Gods!” If Iris had thought the noise before was deafening, this din threatened to strip her of all her senses; she wanted to stagger back, it was so uproarious. 

The Praetor stood. “It is inconclusive!” He screamed, his gavel pounding. 

“Silence, you incompetent nitwit!” Natiqa cried behind him; all eight of the Juris stood now, their faces awash in disgust, their hands raised in unanimity. “It is as clear to the Juris as it is to the people. The accused are innocent.” 

Iris could cry; she fell heavily to her knees, and both Julian and Asra rushed to her side, hands falling gently, warmly, on her waist, her shoulders, her back. Julian trembled as he tried to piece together everything that had been said, his eye wide and lips parted with shock; Asra radiated a fierce, angry, protective energy that nearly sizzled against Iris’s skin. But they were not done. 

Nadia’s lips curled again around an army-felling sneer. “It is clear to me now that my Chamber intends to see me unseated from the throne, either by false accusations or by assassination, inoculating me and my trusted friends with the plague.” She snapped her fingers, and Bludmila and his guards sprang into action, falling upon the Consul. More guards swarmed the stage and the box, slapping chains on the Praetor, the Courtiers. 

Nadia turned her gaze back to the box, where the other woman who had read from the evidence had stepped forward to the front of the box. 

“I am charging my Courtiers with treason and attempted assassination.” Nadia called to her; the accusations were met with roars of approval and cries of agreement from the public. “I think you will agree that the evidence we’ve seen today was damning.” 

“The Juris accepts your charges.” She called in her lilting, accented voice. “They will see their day in court.” Below them, the courtiers were dragged bodily from the stage, Vulgora kicking and screaming, Volta completely limp with shock, Valerius red in the face, tears streaming down his angular cheeks. 

Iris felt warm lips against her temple. “Iris...you did it. You did it.” Asra whispered. “We won.” 

She couldn’t keep it together any longer. The chaos of the trial, the cacophony of voices, receded from her consciousness. She fainted into her lovers’ arms.

*******

Everything Iris saw was stormy, distorted.

_The Consul’s funeral was less than a week later._

_The docks, despite being closed to the public, were crowded with curious onlookers, many of them in their finest whites – a coincidence, they were mourning their own lost to the plague, but a fitting one. Iris drifted behind Nadia, hardly leaving her side, saying nothing. She had cried far more than she thought she would for the lady Consul, her eyes red and raw, even before she smeared the stinging ashes from the pyre over her eyelids. Nadia had snuck Iris and Julian into the private wake, the presenting of the ashes, more for her sake than theirs; no one said anything, not even Lucio, whose thin lips barely quivered as his metal fingers passed over his eyes, gray smeared over black, over red, over ice-blue._

_And now they were all dressed in stark white, Iris’s arm looped through Julian’s elbow, her simple dress and gauze headwrap fluttering in the spring breeze, Julian’s stormy eyes dark as the wind picked up the ashes and bones that Lucio scattered over the channel. The rest of the Chamber stood back, heads trained to the sea as the water claimed what was left of the Consul. None of them saw her suffer, not even Valerius, who stood apart from the group, alone, alone; his father could not return from the new world in time to mourn his wife’s passing. He would never return, but they didn’t know that now._

_Vesuvian funerals were painfully quick: no mourning psalms, no readings, no words, really, just the burning of the body, the scattering of ashes over the sea. As soon as it started, it was over; the Courtiers dispersed to their private lamentations, Nadia and Lucio retreated to the palace, forgoing the usual reception for the grieving in the town square at Julian’s insistence, Valdemar’s hesitant agreement. Iris felt the need to linger, to watch the sea churn the ashes into foam; Julian waited for her, hovering around the carriage, making muted conversation with the stablehand, the sailors stopping over, the hovering, agitated townsfolk. The announcement had not been made, not yet. No one knew how to tell the public that the third in line for the seat had succumbed to the plague._

_And so it was Iris and Valerius who stood over the docks, the water whispering gently under a cloud-covered sky. She shifted, awkwardly, on her feet, as the wind picked up; Valerius said nothing._

_“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Iris murmured, voice nearly breaking. She had loathed the Consul, her snobbishness, her condescension, but Iris’s gut roiled now, the taste on her tongue sharp and biting, knowing she’d been the one who sent the Consul down to the dungeons. There was no way of knowing if that was her undoing, no way of knowing that when she was found crumpled over her desk in her palace office the next morning that she had just, died quickly, as some did, or if she hadn’t shown symptoms until the very end – the plague was random, it was vicious when it chose to be, or if she had carried it all this time, from sleeping with the Count…_

_Valerius scoffed, and turned away from the quiet, crying surf. “Don’t pretend, fool.” He sneered. “You sent her into Death’s arms.”_

_Iris wheeled to him, hand over her pounding heart; he was trembling, his shoulders shaking in his simple linen kurta, his long braid, almost to his knees, hanging loose down back. His steely eyes flitted to hers, sharp and accusing, his lips lifted. “You were the last to speak to her. You gave her the key.”_

_He outstretched his hand to her, opened his tight fist; the key lay cradled in his palm, matte and dull under the cover of cloudlight. Iris’s heart skittered – she could barely breathe, even as she snatched the key from him. It was the first time Julian had looked truly disappointed in her, when she finally told him what she’d done; still, he’d held her when the panic overtook her, when the news finally reached them._

_“I...” She faltered, her normally sharp tongue failing her as Valerius glowered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Nero.”_

_Valerius snarled outright now; his hands shook and his sharp face was animal in his grief. “If it’s the last thing I do, fool...” He growled. “You will pay. You, and the count’s sniveling favorite. Nadia. Valdemar. Lucio. Everyone in this incompetent, treasonous Court.” His lips lifted, wild. “I’ll see you all hang if I have to pull the lever myself.”_

_Iris’s body moved before she could think; her hand wrapped around the young man’s narrow neck, thumb pressed to the seat of his throat. There was a flash of light, a wild bending as the scene around them warped, shook; and then it was over, Iris’s hands were trembling as she withdrew them, she...she… her eyes flitted up to Valerius’s as he blinked at her, eyes wide, soft, impossibly undone as his fight left him, smothered like a candle’s flame, darkness bleeding into him._

_“I’m so sorry.” She whispered to him. He could only look at her a moment before his eyes filled with tears, and he looked away from her._

_“Th...thank you.” He managed, voice breaking. Without another word, without another look at Iris, he turned, his back to her as he began the long walk back to shore, alone._

_And Iris was left standing at the lip of the dock, wanting to vomit into the unfeeling sea._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: **dshun dshun**
> 
> The Nivenese folk song is Rabbit Will Run by Iron & Wine. I do not own it, obviously, and you can listen to it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4PeVgmjtRBkH2gPf6UfmJf). 
> 
> See you after the holidays with the Hanged Man.


	4. The Hanged Man, Part 1: Keep Me A Trick of the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sharon Van Etten - I Told You Everything**
> 
> _CW: Anxiety attacks, MCD referenced, some gore_

When Iris awoke, she was in the guest room, swaddled in silk sheets, the down blanket tucked tenderly around her shoulders. Someone had changed her out of her clothing from the trial into sleeping garments, slippery satin shorts, a matching camisole. With a soft hum, a roll of her neck, she fluttered her eyes open. 

Vasalisa snoozed at her feet, and the late afternoon sun still streamed through the windows; mercifully, she had not slept long – Iris was getting tired of napping away her afternoons. She rolled over onto her back to stretch – that was when she saw she wasn’t alone in the bed. 

Julian dozed sitting up beside her, the back of his head resting against the wall, his neck long and elegant. Sliding out of his lap, his open palm, was Asra’s gray _The Arcana_ spellbook, flipped open to the pages he had marked up in his delirium so many years ago. The quiet sounds he made in his sleep warmed Iris, making her smile as she turned to him, letting her hand come to rest on his forearm; her heart ached when she saw the sleeve was still bloodied from earlier that day. His face at the end of the trial, eyes wide with disbelief, face buckling, swam in Iris’s vision. There was so much to explain.

With a soft grunt, he stirred, and the bare hand not holding the spellbook flew up to his face, pinching and massaging his temples as if his head ached. His eyelids fluttered open, and Iris saw he had removed his eyepatch, the plagued eye bright and gut-twisting against his pallid skin. 

Subconsciously, he wrenched his arm away from Iris’s touch, before looking over; when he saw her face looking up at his, a small, sad smile crossed his face. 

“Ah, Iris. You’re awake.” 

His hesitation, his uncertainty, was palpable as a moment of uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Iris considered reading him, unable to unfathom his expression, his brows furrowed and his eyes sad, confused, but his smile unquestionably affectionate. 

Iris sat up slowly, facing Julian, supporting her weight on one arm as she let her fingers trace back onto his forearm. 

“You must have so many questions.” She whispered; a shameful feeling passed over her, guilt and mortification, fear. 

“Ah, erm...I should, uh, check your vitals.” Julian moved his arm away again, and fiddled with his medical kit by the side of the bed. “When you fall, you fall hard, it seems.” 

Iris furrowed her eyebrows. “Julian...” 

He shushed her gently and placed a cool hand on her forehead; he didn’t let it linger, removing it as soon as he had a gauge for her temperature. She grabbed his wrist as he pulled it away. 

“Don’t ignore me.” She implored him. “What’s wrong?” 

“Iris...” his face sank, lips curling into a sad frown. “It’s a lot to take in. I’m...not sure how I feel yet.” 

“Me, too.” Iris said softly. “I...I’m still wrapping my mind around it, myself.” She could still feel the silent scream locked inside her chest, the howling silence in the back of her mind, when she tried to reckon with what she knew was true. She was holding her mind and her heart separate, palms taut as they tore at each other, screamed, threw plates and broke lamps; the dissonance between them was a vibration that rattled Iris’s very core. 

Gently, very gently, she placed both of her hands on his cheeks; he didn’t pull away, but he closed his eyes, not in comfort, but in torment. He placed his stethoscope over her heart, and Iris understood.

“It’s Asra’s heart that beats in your chest, isn’t it?” He said quietly as he listened. 

Iris trembled. “How did you know?” 

He pulled the stethoscope away, and extricated himself from her touch; Iris wanted to cry. “What you said during the trial. What it says in the spellbook. And…” He blushed faintly. “When we sleep…the three of us... I can feel both of your heartbeats. They’re always in unison. I never thought much of it, but...” He couldn’t finish, and turned away from Iris. 

She leaned forward, and touched his back; he shuddered, almost imperceptibly.

“That doesn’t change how I feel about you, Julian.” Iris whispered, letting her palm come to rest on him, sighing in relief when he didn’t shrug away from her touch.

“Err, I...that’s not it.” He muttered. When he turned to her, met her gaze, his eyes were flooded with pain. “Asra...he gave up so much for you – risked so much for you. I...” He gulped. “I can’t even remember you. If I loved you...before...if I felt the way then that I do now, how…” His voice caught, like finger on a nail, sudden and painful. “...How could I have forgotten you?” 

Iris shook her head gently. “Julian, it’s not like that...” 

“How...how could I have forgotten that you had died? How could I have not known?” He turned to her now, grabbing her shoulders, running his hands down the swell of her arms, then up to her neck, her chin. “What kind of man am I that I gave up my memories of you...for anything?” 

“Wait...what?” Iris said, her brows furrowed, her lips parted. Julian’s pained gaze flickered around her face. 

“The Hanged Man. This bargain, this...curse. Asra said the price I paid for it must have been steep, and it was. It was you.” His eyes were watering now. “How could I?” 

“Oh, darling, no...” Iris cooed, smoothing his hair. “No, that’s not what happened...” 

Julian’s lips trembled. “Since I met you, I’ve had this...unshakable feeling, a terrifying feeling, that I hurt you. In our past lives. Iris, what if you died because of me? What if…” Tears fell freely as he clutched at her waist, cupping her curves, as if he couldn’t believe she were real, in front of him. “What if you’re in this terrible body, your memories gone, because of me? And I traded those memories because I couldn’t bear it...” He buried his head into her shoulder, tears wetting her skin as he sobbed wretchedly. “Selfish, I’m so selfish, a coward...”

She pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as he clung to her. She cooed his name softly into his ear as he let it out, his body shaking. Vasalisa, with a whine, nuzzled into Julian’s chest, laying her head over his thigh, her eyes round with compassion. 

Once he settled, sniffling and flushed, Iris spoke soothingly into his ear. “I’ve seen us together in the past, Julian. I’ve seen you play music with me, present me with bouquets, make love to me in the gardens. We shared quarters, a bed. You loved me. I felt it; it radiated from you, it imbued everything you did, every choice you made. You cared for me so exquisitely.” She cupped his face, pressing her forehead into his. “You protected me from the horrors of the palace.” 

Julian gripped her wrists. “But this feeling...I just know that I hurt you...?” 

“If you hurt me, it’s because I loved you. A choice that I made for myself.” She kissed him gently. “You can’t protect me from everything.” She paused now. “And this body...it’s exactly the same as in those memories, down to my dimples, my eyelashes. I’m still me.” She drew his hands back to her waist. “This body is still mine. It responds to you, to Asra, just the same.” 

Julian flushed, gripping her waist again, and kissed her, his mouth opening against hers, his tongue swirling in; Iris gasped against his lips as he gently pressed her backwards back onto the bed, his body arching over hers, his knee between her legs. 

“Julian, wait…” Iris said, her hands flying to his shoulders, gripping them in warning. He paused, his eyes wide, watery. “You’re...you’re upset. I don’t want it like this...” 

Julian’s face crumpled as tears fell down his cheeks again; Iris gasped in confusion as he dropped his head onto her chest, nuzzling his cheek between her breasts. “How else can I show you what you mean to me, Iris? What else do I have to give you…?” 

Iris didn’t know how to navigate this, as she wrapped her arms around him, holding him while he cried again, running one hand down his back to soothe him. She had expected him to be disbelieving, angry, confused, even disgusted...but she had never imagined he would be this distraught. 

She pulled his head up to hers and kissed him again, softly, tenderly. “You give me so much, Julian. You don’t have to prove anything to me.” She whispered. “I love you no matter what happened in the past. I know you love me. That’s enough for me.” 

Julian rested his head on Iris’s neck, dropping sweet kisses there. “I’m so sorry, Iris...” He whispered.

“What for?” Iris whispered. “Learning your lover died, that your other lover is the one who brought her back? You’re shocked.” She smiled now. “Not even charming, handsome doctors are immune.” 

Julian chuckled weakly, and Iris’s heart warmed; she traced her thumbs gently against his throat, where his mark lay dormant under his skin.

“And we don’t know for certain what bargain you made. You may not have traded your memories at all.” She murmured, her voice almost singsong. Her heart was breaking in two as she said it; she wanted so badly to tell Julian that Asra had his memories, but they promised they would return them together, and forcing Asra’s hand felt wrong, hypocritical. “It will all be clear soon.” 

Julian gasped, his wide eyes swinging wildly to Iris’s. “Iris, you’re right. The answers...they’re in the dungeons. In my office. With the plague’s cure.” 

Suddenly, the door slid open on its tracks; Iris had to twist and crane her neck to see who it was – Asra, with Faust wound around his shoulders. When his eyes fell on the couple on the bed, Julian hovering over Iris, his knee between her legs, Julian blushed fiercely and reared off of her. 

Asra smiled knowingly, his expression foxlike. “Don’t let me interrupt.” 

“No, ah...we weren’t...” Julian stammered, leaning back into a seated position. “I mean, we, er, we were, but we weren’t...” 

Iris shushed him gently, placing her hand on his chest; a soft smile snuck across her face as she sat up. “Asra, how are you feeling? After the trial? What happened after I passed out?” 

Asra sat on the edge of the bed, letting his fingers trace over Iris’s before interlacing their hands together. “I’m fine. The Courtiers were arrested, and Valerius was evicted from the Juris. The streets are full of revelers – I’m sure half the city is drunk by now.” 

“And are we going to celebrate?” Iris asked, her eyes twinkling. 

Julian smiled, wanly but fondly; Asra chuckled. “Unfortunately, Nadia got one of her headaches pretty much right after the trial.” His eyes swung to Iris’s, a gentle warning. “But she insisted that dinner would be a celebration.” 

“And what time is dinner?” Iris asked. “What time is it now, even?” 

“Dinner won’t be for a few hours.” Asra said, brows arching. “Why, do you have plans for passing the time?” 

Iris smacked his arm. “Actually...” Her eyes flitted back to Julian.. “We should go down to the dungeons.” 

Asra’s violet eyes flashed with recognition. “For your cure, Ilya.” 

Julian sighed. “And, hopefully, some answers.” 

Asra pressed his lips together into a thin line. “That reminds me...Portia had a change of clothes sent up for you, Ilya. She put them in your room.” He gestured to the doctor’s white sleeve, still soaked in his blood. 

“Ah...” Julian looked at it, eyes wide, as if he’d just noticed it for the first time. He smirked a little. “My, er, my apologies. Bloody clothes are an occupational hazard, and I, erm...I forget how distressing it can be for...well.” He stood from the bed. 

“Get changed, and we’ll go down to the dungeons. I’ll show you the way.” Iris said quietly, craning her neck up for a kiss. Julian stooped down and kissed her, his fingers on her jaw as his lips lingered on hers, and Iris could still feel the soft tremble in his chin, his fingers; her heart, her body, ached. 

Asra’s gaze surreptitiously traced Julian’s path to the door as he left; as soon as the door slid closed on its tracks, he gripped Iris’s hand, turning his dreamy eyes to her. “What did you say to him?” He asked her quietly. 

Iris felt her lips tremble. “I…I mostly just soothed him. He seemed to be able to accept it? But he was pretty broken up about it, too. He thought…” Iris paused, attempting to swallow the dry, acrid lump in her throat. “He thinks that he traded his memories of me as his part of the bargain with the Hanged Man.” 

Asra inhaled sharply through his nose, his eyes widening. “Did you tell him the truth?” 

Iris shook her head, reaching up to smooth a loose curl away from Asra’s forehead. “It’s not my truth to tell, Asra. It has to be you.” 

An expression washed over Asra that Iris barely recognized on him, striking her cold: uncertainty. “What should I do, Iris?” 

“I don’t know.” Iris leaned forward and kissed his lips softly. “But we have to do it soon, Asra. Julian’s not going to find what he’s looking for in those dungeons.” 

“I know, I know.” Asra’s eyelashes fluttered against Iris’s cheeks. “I need some time to do research on how to safely return so many memories. I think there was a copy of _L’ethique de L’Oubli_ in the library. Maybe even a _Memoria Revocatas_ , or the _Sunyama Iaita_.” 

Iris nodded gently, their foreheads touching. “I think that’s a good place to start. But we’ll need a plan soon. I can’t...it hurts me to lie to him, Asra.” 

“I know, my heart.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her a little closer, letting his head sink onto her shoulder, savoring the warmth of her skin on his cheek for a moment before speaking. 

“I’m in awe of you, Iris. Every day you grow stronger. Watching you today...it was like you were your old self, before I left. You were so powerful, so fierce...you had Valerius shaking. And so full of love...” He placed one hand over Iris’s heart, fingers tracing the soft, lace-clad skin. “Knowing how much you love me...how much you love Ilya...where does it all come from?” 

Iris nuzzled him. “What you give will come back to you threefold, right? If I can love at all, it’s because you loved me first.” Her fingertips brushed against his sternum, lingering over his heart, mirroring him. “It’s your heart, Asra.” 

Asra smiled sadly, and pulled her a little closer before kissing her neck. “Portia sent up a change of clothes for you, too.” They kissed once on the lips, before Asra stood and held out a hand to help her out of the bed. “I noticed you were convinced into wearing more white. I requested Portia bring you something...different.”

On the dressing screen was a royal blue cheongsam, edged in gold and patterned all over with tiny red poppies and golden leaves, with a cutout between the collarbones and the bust. The slits up the sides of each leg practically came to the hip, but underneath the cheongsam were several layers of flowing red chiffon. Iris traced the luxurious embroidery, pulse humming at its beauty. 

Asra helped her dress, fastening the gilded buttons at the small of her back, smoothing the fabric over her collarbones before letting his hands come to rest on her shoulders. “There are still days when I can’t believe you’re real, Iris.” He whispered. “That you’re here with me. The way you look now…” His gaze roved down her body, her curves, before he drew his eyes back to hers. “I’m afraid I’ll wake up and this will all be a dream.” 

“I’m real.” Iris said sweetly, looking up at Asra through her long, dark eyelashes. “I’m real and I’m here.” They kissed, this time deeply, their tongues meeting, melting, as Asra wrapped his arms around her.

There was a soft groan and creak of wood as the door slid open on its gilded tracks. “It seems I’m the one interrupting now...” Julian joked, his tenor low and teasing. Iris and Asra pulled away from each other, gently, and Iris turned her head to Julian, her cheek resting on Asra’s shoulder. He had replaced his eyepatch, and was wearing a deep gray button-up embroidered with tiny silver fleur-de-lis, one that looked stunning against his black leather pants, made his auburn hair look all the richer. Iris’s heart fluttered, and she smiled; she couldn’t believe how handsome he was. 

The three of them made their way to the library without much need for conversation; in the chaos of the last few days, the doors were left mercifully unlocked. Once inside, Asra fell back; Iris and Julian turned back to him, Julian’s brows furrowed, head cocked in confusion. 

“I have some work to do here in the library, Ilya.” Asra said quietly. “You and Iris go. You probably don’t want me intruding, anyway.” He smiled gently and disappeared between the looming bookshelves. 

ris took Julian’s hand and lead him to the bookshelf in the back, near the desks. She located the three books, red, worn leather, black with gold lettering, and the bookshelf swung open. 

Julian blinked a few times, his one visible eye squinting as he peered into the dark corridor. Iris cast her soft orange light, and reached for the mask she had left at the entrance when she returned from the dungeons yesterday. She made to fasten it around her face, but Julian took it from her hands and indicated with his chin that she turn around; he gently fastened the leather straps around her neck, taking the opportunity to kiss her ear, her hair. From his pocket, he procured a kerchief, which he tied over his own nose and mouth. 

“Are you ready?” Iris asked quietly, placing her hand on his arm; she was surprised when he took his hand in hers, interlacing their fingers, with what Iris could only assume was a roguish smile. 

“Time to face the music.” He said, his eye flashing, but Iris didn’t need her clairvoyance to see the apprehension behind his bravado. She squeezed his hand reassuringly, and together they stepped into the stone corridor. 

Iris was steadier this time, her steps less tentative, but she was shocked at how easily Julian seemed to know the way, his body remembering what his mind had forgotten; he easily navigated the cracks and the divots of the rough stone steps, at several points instinctually guiding Iris away from a particularly treacherous foothold. Iris could see flashes of recognition on Julian’s features, the tweaks in his dark brows, the curious light twinkling in his eye. 

The steps finally leveled to the chamber with the elevator, and beside her, she felt Julian pause, his shoulders tense, his eyes flickering over the craggy stone bricks, the oppressive shadows, the terrifying red light over the elevator. 

“This...I remember this.” He whispered, his voice careening softly against the stone. “It’s an old nightmare.” His hand slipped out of Iris’s grip and snaked around her waist, pulling her a little closer to him. “But you know. You’ve already been down there.”

“I know.” A familiar dread filled Iris as she stared the elevator down. “Did you really march down here every day, for years?” Iris whispered to him, letting her hand come to the small of his back. Together, they stared down the terrible elevator. 

“We need a key.” Julian said suddenly, straightening. He pointed to the lock. Without a word, Iris procured it from her bag, holding it out in her palm for him to see. Gently, he took it from her; together, they approached the door and he inserted the key into the keyhole.

Again, it turned easily in the lock; Iris noted the horrible expression of despondency, of self-loathing, as Julian ran his long fingers over the plaque’s macabre inscription. The gate screeched open, and Iris and Julian had to squeeze into the cage for them both to fit. As the gate shuddered shut, Julian pulled Iris even closer into his arms, his hands coming to rest on her hips. “I’m glad you’re here with me.” 

Her heart fluttered, she wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest as the elevator went down. There was no noise aside from the mechanical cacophony that lowered them, but then, Julian spoke. 

“I had a lot of time to think last night, Iris. I know that I didn’t kill Lucio, but what am I guilty of? Nearly a year of memories, gone. What did I do? What did I do to you?” He touched her face gently, pulling her gaze up to his, but she shushed him. 

“Don’t dwell on that, darling.” She whispered. “Your cure is down there. We don’t know any more than that. Maybe...maybe you won’t find anything else here.” 

“I hope that’s not true.” Julian sighed as the elevator groaned to a stop. 

Iris’s heart pounded in her throat, but she had no reply; they were silent as they moved through the stuffy, earthen corridor, opened the horrible door with the garnet eye, and entered the dressing room. Iris’s heart sank when Julian instinctually made his way to the cubby next to hers, where a long white waxcloth doctor’s coat, gloves, and a plague mask were waiting. Julian only grabbed the gloves and the plague mask, deftly shifting the kerchief away from his mouth as he secured the straps around his head, snapping the gloves over his hands. Iris grabbed her much smaller gloves from her cubby, forsaking the heavy coat. Julian’s brows cinched in confusion as he regarded her; his face fell when he realized that the things there must have been hers in their past life. 

Suited up now, Julian shouldered open the heavy door to the operating theater. He froze as his eyes swung around the cavernous, hellish room, his gaze falling on the blood-soaked wood of the raised stage, the rusted instruments looming ominously on the wooden tables shoved between the ghastly operating tables, the glinting metal shackles that once restrained frenzied, delirious patients, doomed to die a painful death, whether by plague or by vivisection. 

Julian’s reaction was visceral; his whole body stiffened, and a fine tremble settled into his fingers as memories of day after fruitless day spent in that dungeon arced through him. Iris placed a soft hand on his back – she could practically hear his heart hammering in his ribcage. 

“Your office, Julian.” She whispered to him, steering him gently towards the second door on the right, the cell that had become his refuge. He touched the wooden door, fingertips lingering in what Iris could only assume was a bittersweet, long-lost fondness.

“I’d nearly forgotten.” He muttered, voice wistful as he pushed the wooden door open. 

Iris had left the tiny room largely undisturbed, aside from removing Asra’s spellbook; it was still chaotic with the frenetic notes and drawings of Julian’s delirium, the scratchy sheets and threadbare blanket on the bed still twisted and dank from the sleep of the ill, the faded symbol on the wall clear as day. The cell felt quite crowded with the two of them there. 

For a moment, Julian was silent, his wide eye blinking owlishly at the bedlam. “This looks like the room of a lunatic in an institution.” He breathed, his voice thin. He fell immediately on the desk, long, graceful hands shuffling through the notes, eyes scouring the slanted handwriting, as he tried to decipher his own feverish ramblings. 

Iris sat gently on the bed, pulling her legs under her to give Julian space as he sifted through his things. “I don’t even know what I should be looking for...” He murmured, mostly to himself. 

Iris ran her hand over the rough mattress, the torn sheets, imagining the tortuous nights Julian spent here alone, haunted by dreams of the Hanged Man, Death looming. “Look for something that calls out to you.” She suggested. “Listen for voices in the things around you. One of them will speak to you.” Her fingertips brushed against something hard; wedged between the mattress and the wall was a thin, handbound book. Gently, she extricated it.

Julian made a soft noise that was half chuckle, half tsk. “That may work for you and Asra, but I don’t exactly hear the voices of inanimate objects.” Iris was only half listening as she thumbed through the book. It was a sketchbook, filled with even more drawings of the Hanged Man, in his many forms; Iris saw the red-eyed bat, a man suspended from a tree by his ankle, a martyr on an upside-down cross, a long-haired woman floating down a river, but most were of the shibari-tied, raven-headed man. Iris noticed the dimensions of the sketchbook were the same as the sketch she found in _The Arcana_ ; Julian must have ripped that drawing out of here.

“You’re not listening for their voices. You’re listening for your own.” Iris said quietly as she flipped through the drawings. Julian had filled pages and pages and pages of sketches of the Hanged Man, but slowly, another face infiltrated the margins, a wide, downturned eye with a strong brow here, a set of rosebud lips there, a pierced nose there, until entire pages were taken up by the image, the pieces finally coming together; Iris’s heart nearly stopped cold. 

It was her own face, assembled in the same frenetic slashes of splattered ink that constructed the Hanged Man, her likeness undeniable, aside from the sclera painted with smeared stroked of red that turned Iris’s stomach; it was the only color splashed on the pages, bloody and foreboding. In one drawing, her eyes looked pleading, beseeching, lips parted; in another, her eyes were angry, brows slashed thickly, the corner of her lip drawn up into a toothy snarl; in another, her eyes were unseeing, glazed, the mouth slack, her long hair swirling around her, face sunk into a swamp’s mire. There were notes scrawled in the margins: _“I believe?” “My love is a swamp,” “Tell me how to reach you,”_ and one ominous page just covered in the same phrase over and over again, _“Not the same not the same not the same not the...”_

Iris flipped to the last drawing before the pages went blank; it was of her, her nude body, tangled in twisted mangrove roots, deep, violent shadows seeping in from the corners of the page, but her head haloed in a ring of pale light, her face serene, as if in slumber. At the bottom of the page was one hurried note, miniscule, barely legible. _“You’re all I see in the light.”_

“Julian.” Iris said, her voice barely a whimper. She held the sketchbook up to him as he turned; his eyes widened with shock as he took it from Iris’s shaking hands. 

“What is this?” He breathed, almost inaudibly. He traced the image with his fingertips carefully, before flipping backwards through the pages, his eyes darting over the pages, uncomprehending. 

“I think...” Iris said, peering over his arm, heart pounding. “When you were seeing the Hanged Man, you were also seeing visions of me. But you didn’t remember me. You couldn’t.” 

“So...I already traded my memories of you when I got sick.” Julian said quietly. “And I didn’t have the cure then. Or else I would have been able to heal myself.” 

“Julian...” Iris whispered in warning, her fingers wrapping gently around his tense forearm. “You don’t know you traded your memories.” 

Julian sighed, then sat heavily on the bed next to Iris. “What else could I have given him...them...it?”

Iris shook her head. “It’s impossible to say. You’d have to asked the Hanged Man. And I think...” Iris mused, her fingers on her chin. “I think you tried to contact him because you made a connection with him at the ritual. And he came to you...” Iris reached into her satchel and took out _The Arcana_. She took the drawing out of the pages near the back – she wondered absentmindedly how it got back there before handing it to Julian. “I think he came to you...”

“...Because I was on the brink of death. I was desperate.” Julian finished for Iris. “And we had unfinished business.” 

Iris raised an eyebrow at this last piece of information. “What?” But she saw it in Julian’s eyes. He was regaining memories as he surveyed the sketch. 

“The deal we tried to strike at the ritual. It failed. So he came back to me when I summoned him.” Julian said, his voice sure. “But what was the bargain? Is _that_ how I got the gift? Is that how I cured myself of the plague? Hardly a long-term solution.” 

Iris placed a hand on Julian’s shoulder. “Maybe we could try contacting the Hanged Man together. Asra could help. He’s taken us both to the Magician’s realm. Maybe he can take us to the Hanged Man’s. And you can speak to him about your bargain.” 

Julian chewed on his lip. “What would that entail?” He asked faintly. Iris shook her head. 

“I don’t know. We’d have to ask Asra. I’ve never done magic like that before.” Julian’s eyes traced the drawing in his hand, the feverish sketches of Iris’s face, distorted in death, in pain, and he heaved a heavy sigh as Iris kissed his cheek. 

“Asra will help. We’ll figure this out.” She stood, and held out a hand to help him up. “Do you want to keep looking?” 

Julian shook his head defeatedly, and took Iris’s hand. “I don’t think there’s anything else down here for me.” Nonetheless, he pocketed the small sketchbook, before smiling raffishly at Iris. “Let’s go. I’m starting to feel a bit peckish.” 

As if on cue, Iris’s stomach growled; she hadn’t noticed how hungry she was. She started to blush, but Julian laughed before throwing his arm around Iris’s shoulders. 

“Let’s go up and see how close we are to dinner. We do have a trial victory to celebrate.” He kissed her temple. “I’m not sure I thanked you for everything you did out there today. You were astonishing. You’d make a top-notch lawyer, if you wanted.” 

Iris snorted as she opened the door back into the dungeons. “The only part about being a lawyer I’d like is getting paid to argue.” 

Julian opened his mouth to say something, but a sickening sound ricocheted through the dungeon. It was like the rustle of autumn leaves on the wind, but alive and writhing. How Iris hadn’t heard it before, she didn’t know. 

Julian’s eye’s widened in shock before his nostrils flared, his expression darkening. He practically sprinted across the room to a circular pit set into the wall on the farthest corner of the dungeon, sealed with a haphazardly-constructed wooden cover. Iris bounded over behind him, but as he knelt next to the cistern, he turned back to her, his visible eye fiery, and held up a hand. 

“Stay back, Iris!” He shouted, his voice panicked. Iris was so shocked that she froze, her hand clutched over her heart; she had never heard him use such a commanding tone before. 

With a gloved hand, he lifted the wooden cover off of the top of the pit into a grove that recessed into the stone wall, a practiced and precise movement. A gut-churning, rank smell rushed into Iris’s nostrils, making her gag loudly; just meters away, his face nearly over the pit, Julian convulsed and retched, his plague mask doing almost nothing to block the stench. 

Inside the pit were thousands upon thousands of shining red beetles, the nauseous skittering of hooked legs and feet as they climbed over each other, picking clean the half-desiccated body of someone who couldn’t have died more than a day ago; the insects’ terrible, pointed elytra clattered as delicate, bloody-veined wings fluttered. 

From the sides of the pit, red water drained into pipes fitted into the stone, the same red water Iris and Julian looked into just a week ago in the channels that ran through the Southside, polluting the city’s water supply. This was the source; certainty flooded Iris. 

With a sneer, Julian slammed the cover shut; the beetles that skittered out, he squashed violently with his gloved palms, before stripping the gloves off and throwing them into the pit. He backed slowly away from the beetles, blocking Iris’s body from the pit before leading her away. 

“What was that, Julian?” Iris asked, her eyebrows furrowed with confusion as she looked over her shoulders. 

“The source of the plague.” Julian growled, as the metal door to the theater slammed shut behind them.

*******

They were mostly silent for their ascent, tightly gripping each other’s hands. As Asra and Iris suspected, Julian was not comforted by what they found in the dungeons, and now, Iris felt as if her nerves would never recover. If the beetles that carried the plague were back, that meant…

“The plague will be back soon.” Julian said quietly as the secret door to the library swung open. “If we don’t get the cure...” He trailed off, voice low, quiet. 

Iris squeezed his hand. “Asra will help us get to the Hanged Man’s realm, and then you’ll remember the cure. Even if the plague returns, we’ll be ready.” She searched the library with her magic, but she didn’t find a trace of Asra anywhere, only the remnants of his magic, his fingertips on book’s spines, his soft breath against opened pages. 

“He’s not here.” Iris said, opening her eyes. She glanced towards the massive-stained glass window; it was already dark outside. “He may have gone to dinner.” 

Julian’s hand snaked around Iris’s waist. “We should eat, too. You’ve had a long day, and I suspect you’ve hardly eaten.” 

Julian was right; she had been too nervous to eat much more at breakfast than a cup or two of coffee, and she had passed out before eating lunch. She didn’t resist as Julian led her out of the library to the dining room. They didn’t speak any more of the plague, though they both knew they would have to tell Nadia and Asra in due time, and sooner rather than later. 

The sounds of gentle revelry reached their ears even before they reached the doors of the dining room; Iris heard singing, and the sounds of several instruments, floating over raucous conversation and joyous laughter. Even the porter’s voice sounded rhapsodic when he announced their arrival: “The magician Iris, apprentice to the magician Asra, and Doctor Julian Devorak, friend of the court!” 

As they were swept inside, Iris was overwhelmed by a cacophony of color; the gorgeous mahogany table was practically groaning under the weight of foods of every hue of the rainbow, arranged from the deepest, bloodiest red at the head to the most enlightened purple at the end, a purple that reminded Iris achingly of Asra’s eyes. The room was full of Satrinava sisters, Natiqa and Nasmira and Nahara and Navra, and a princess Iris didn’t recognize, one that wore a carmine-red headwrap and neutral-toned traveling clothes. There was a choked sound besides her as Julian gave Iris’s hand a soft squeeze before crossing the room to greet the mystery princess. 

“Nazali, is that you?” He practically shouted with the widest smile Iris had ever seen on him. The Princess Nazali turned to them, and Iris’s heart pounded; they were stunning, like all of the Princesses, but this one was especially dashing. There were streaks of gray in their long red hair, and a strong cleft chin and brow framed a pair of glittering violet eyes and a jaunty grin that absolutely set them alight as they embraced Julian warmly. 

“Ilya, I can’t believe it’s you!” Nazali’s voice was deep and sonorant, delectably sweet. “Dia filled me in on your latest antics. It seems that you’re as much trouble as ever.” 

Julian jiggled his eyebrows, his smile morphing into a sly smirk. “I seem to remember a wise mentor telling me no one had fun without courting trouble.” 

Nazali laughed raucously, their booming voice filling the dining room. “And I’ll regret it til the day I die, Ilya. Though it seems you may be less slippery than you were. Who is this vision…?” They raised a thick, flirtatious eyebrow at Iris, who had approached the conversation at Julian’s elbow, a small, amused smirk sliding across her full lips. 

“Ah, where are my manners?” Julian stammered, turning to Iris, a flush rising on his cheeks. “Nazali, Doctor Satrinava, this is the magician Iris Keshet, my, erm...my...”

Iris proffered a hand, a true smile crossing her lips as she shot Julian a comforting look. “His girlfriend. It’s lovely to meet you.” Julian blushed deeply, smiling ever so slightly, but didn’t contradict her. 

Nazali laughed, buoyantly, and grasped Iris’s hand tightly with both of theirs. “It’s lovely to meet the woman this slippery playboy is finally tying his cart too.” Nazali jiggled their eyebrows playfully, and Iris realized that Julian must have learned that move from them. “I taught this tall drink of water everything he knows about medicine, and hopefully a thing or two about life.” 

“It’s true.” Julian said warmly, wrapping his arm around Iris’s waist. “Doctor Satrinava is a decorated war surgeon, the Head Physician of Prakra, and the leading expert on the Red Plague.” 

“After you, Ilya.” Nazali’s eyes sparkled with pride, and a joy spread like gold through Iris’s body. “You have far more expertise with it than I ever will, at this point.”

Iris saw Julian flush out of the corner of her eye, and the image of the skittering beetles in the dungeon’s pit flashed through her. They were both saved by Asra, who arrived at their conversation with two flutes of Golden Goose in his hands, and two other drinks floating behind him like ducklings, a goblet of barberry mead and a stein of jet-black beer. He swooped a hot kiss on Iris’s cheek before handing her the champagne glass, his hand finding her shoulder. “Nadia will be doing a toast soon. She insisted on Golden Goose for both of you.” 

Iris turned to Asra and lovingly rubbed her nose against his; she could smell the alcohol on his breath, the smoky new world rye he was so fond of. She assumed, from his unrestrained affection, that he was already a little tipsy. “Dr. Satrinava, have you met Asra?” Iris asked, gesturing to the wobbly magician beside her. “He’s my partner, and my mentor.” 

“We have met.” Asra’s eye’s twinkled at Nazali, but offered a hand, which they shook, their eyes sparking curiously between Asra’s hand on Iris’s shoulder and Julian’s on Iris’s waist. “But I relish another introduction.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you again.” Nazali said heartily to Asra, before turning back to Julian. “You really do court trouble as a rule, don’t you?” 

“It's more fun this way.” Julian said coyly, one brow arched. "Besides...if there's trouble to be had, it will find me." Iris and Nazali both laughed and Asra smirked knowingly as the clinking of glass echoed through the dining room. The music died down. 

Nadia was standing at the head of the table, dressed in soft seafoam silks, deliciously ruffled in a way that accented her hips and shoulders, soft gauze studded with pearls on her hands, her decolletage, her long hair crowned with peachvelvet peonies. “Now that our esteemed guest of honor is here...” Her eyes flashed playfully to Iris. “Let us all make a toast.” 

Quickly, Iris’s eyes flitted around the room – aside from the Satrinava sisters and her two lovers, Muriel and Portia had joined them, along with Bludmila, who was now wearing the decorated uniform of the Captain of the Guard, looking slightly embarrassed. Muriel was blushing furiously, despite Portia’s sunny presence at one elbow, Nasmira’s serenity at the other; he’d been scrubbed clean by the palace staff, his lank hair seeming fluffier and softer, skin gleaming against the soft, fine shirt and pants someone had coaxed him into. Iris was shocked to see Aster and Dara, Aster in a floaty dress of cobalt and Dara a matching suit embroidered with butterflies, finery Iris knew they did not own; they both looked completely at home at the palace, their smiles wild and wicked as they rubbed elbows with princesses. 

Nadia continued. “It is a testament not just to Iris’s intellect that she successfully litigated against an esteemed member of the Juris today. It is testament to her relentless search for the truth, the strength of her intuition. It is a testament to her skill with the arcane, as she displayed so dazzlingly today to all of Vesuvia. It is a testament to her loyalty, not just to the ones she loves, but to Vesuvia and its people. And finally, it is a testament to her fortitude, and her ability to bring the disparate together. She could not have argued for my innocence...for my friends’ innocence...” her garnet eyes sparked gratefully in Julian, Asra, and Iris’s direction, “...without the help of everyone in this room. For that, I will be eternally grateful. I am proud to call Iris a friend and to reward her with the status Friend of the Court.” She raised her glass high. “To Iris.” 

“To Iris!” Everyone in the room cheered, in their ways; Julian, Asra, and Nazali all clinked their glasses against Iris’s. Julian stooped to kiss her on the cheek while Asra planted a lingering kiss on her neck before each took a sip of their Golden Goose. 

“To you, my heart.” Asra murmured, catching his partner’s eye. Iris opened her mouth to respond, but her stomach growled again. He chuckled. 

“Let’s get some food in you, shall we?” He said playfully, a finger tracing her lips, before he whisked her away from Nazali and Julian to the bountiful dining room table. 

“What is all this?” Iris asked as Asra grabbed gilded plate and began loading it with Iris’s favorite fruits in the red section, currants and grapes and pomegranate arils. “Surely the kitchen didn’t do all this for me?” She couldn't help but think of the waste, of the children whose bellies ached on the streets not meters from them. 

“Wellll….” Asra crooned impishly, glancing sidelong at Iris through half-lidded eyes. “I believe the kitchen was testing the food for the rainbow room at the masquerade today. Portia simply made sure the food didn’t go to waste, and put in a couple of special orders. If there’s one I’ve learned about that woman, she’s efficient to a fault. She assured me the leftovers won’t go to waste, either.” His eyes lit up as they fell upon a bowl full of curls of pasta in the orange section, covered in a sauce that could only be described as uncanny yellow-orange, scooping a large serving onto the gilded plate. “You have to try this, Iris, you’ll love it.” 

Together, hip to hip, they filled up her plate with all of her favorite foods, spicy Drakrian curry with lamb and potatoes over fragrant yellow rice; pickled cucumbers, Nipponese seaweed salad, and green vegetables rolled in sticky rice; flaky pieces of salt-baked freshwater trout with beautiful indigo skin; several types of still-warm Umbrian and Francish bread, and steamed Seong buns stuffed with minced pork. Asra offered her tantalizing little bites of foods she had never tried before, letting his fingers linger on her lips after lifting the morsel to her mouth; he savored her reactions, the way her eyes lit up when something was delicious, chuckling when something was not to her taste and she grimaced comically. Once her plate was practically overflowing, they retreated to one of the small tables that had been set out around the perimeter of the room. 

“Were you able to find anything in the library?” Iris asked, before taking her first bite, the uncanny orange pasta – it was creamy and cheesy, and deeply soul-soothing. She let out a little moan of satisfaction, and Asra’s eyes twinkled. 

“I was.” He said quietly as a servant brought him another round of new world rye in a squat, diamond-patterned crystal glass. “I found a promising spell in the _Sunyama Iaita_ , but it will take me some time to translate it. It’s written in Kirat.” 

“Oof. Are the directions all Kirati riddles, too?” Iris asked, now trying one the vegetable rolls, tender blanched asparagus with cucumber and avocado. Asra nodded, taking a sip of his rye, and Iris groaned softly. “How long are you thinking, then?” 

“A few days, maybe, if nothing else vys for my attention.” His eyes twinkled again as his gaze nakedly traced her features, but Iris bit her lip; she glanced sidelong at Julian, who was across the room trading banter with Natiqa and Portia, his stein of beer already half-drunk.

“As much as it pains me, we may have to put it on hold.” Iris lowered her voice. “We found red beetles in the dungeons. Julian said they were the source of the plague.” 

Asra’s eyes widened in shock. “Red beetles? You’re sure?”

“Yes. Julian was certain. He wouldn’t even let me near them.” 

Asra swung his gaze back to Julian, thinking a moment, before turning back to Iris. “Were you able to retrieve the memory of his cure?” 

Iris shook her head dolefully. “He regained a memory that whatever bargain he and Hanged Man struck at the ritual failed, and he tried to contact him again once he contracted the plague – that was how he got the cure, and the price must have been his gift. We...I think we need to find a way to contact the Hanged Man, or send him to the Hanged Man’s realm, if we’re to recover his cure.” 

Asra’s brow furrowed, and he pressed his full lips together into a thoughtful moue. “That will be incredibly dangerous. The realms of the Arcana...the rules of our world don’t apply there. And the Hanged Man...he’s notoriously elusive. Even if we sent Ilya there...he might not find the Hanged Man at all. He might get stuck there. He might die.” 

“Could you send both of us?” Iris asked. “I’m familiar with the Arcana, I’ve heard the voice of the Hanged Man. I could guide him.” 

Asra sighed, and sipped his drink, thinking. “That could work, but it would still be dangerous. And you would have less time. Sending both of you into the realm of an Arcana I don’t have a personal connection with...that will take a taxing amount of magic.”

“Asra...if the plague really is coming back, we need that cure.” Iris took his hand into hers. “I know it’s risky, but we have to try something.” 

“I know. You’re right.” Asra said with a half-smile. “It’s safer than pushing Ilya back to the brink of death, anyway.” 

As if on cue, Julian appeared at their table, carrying a small plate of sweets, incredibly elaborate Nipponese wagashi next to blackberry tarts the size of Iris’s palm next to sumptuous chocolate truffles and macaroons, dyed all colors of the rainbow. 

“I didn’t see you pick up any dessert.” He said quietly, stooping to kiss the top of Iris’s head before presenting the plate to her. “And then I realized I didn’t know what you liked, so I brought you a bit of everything.” 

“If it’s sweets, Iris will eat just about anything.” Asra said, winking at Iris as she bit into a delicate piece of violet-scented mochi, her eyes rolling back with bliss. 

“Thank you, darling.” She said after she swallowed, placing her hand over Julian’s hand on her shoulder. “We should talk...about reaching the Hanged Man...” 

“I have no doubt that what the three of you are discussing is important, but can it not wait until tomorrow?” Nadia’s voice, throaty and melodious, cut through their conversation as she floated up to them, a goblet of white wine in her hand. “Tonight we should celebrate our victory, and I should like a moment alone with dear Iris.” 

Iris bit her lip, and for a moment, she considered telling Nadia about the plague, but Asra’s eyes flashed warmly. “Of course, Nadi. It can wait until tomorrow.” He stood, squeezing Iris’s hand once and flashing her a foxlike smile. Julian let his hand linger over Iris’s shoulder, a small smile on his face, before joining Asra, who was wandering over to a gaggle of Princesses who were gathering a group for a Prakran drinking game. 

“It may be easier to hear each other on the balcony.” Nadia said quietly, as the group erupted in riotous laughter. The only two people who had not joined in the game were Nasmira and Muriel, watching from one of the nearby tables. 

The air on the balcony was cool and sweet, the scents of winter fruit trees, pomegranates and kumquats and the sweet oranges Vesuvia was known for, blowing in on a chilly breeze that prickled Iris’s bare arms; she sipped her drink as Nadia leaned against the balcony and stared out into the gardens below.

“Iris, I must say...” Nadia said, her voice pensive and her gaze faraway, in another world completely. “...while I had no doubt of your abilities, I find myself quite unnerved by today’s events.” 

Iris made a low sound of understanding, and joined Nadia at the balcony. “You weren’t the only one. Julian was pretty rattled by what Valerius revealed, too.” 

Nadia turned to her, her eyes knowing. “And yet, you were not.” 

Iris shook her head. “No. I found out about a week ago, while I was researching in the library. I saw a series of memories of Julian’s and Asra’s, and mine. Asra...Asra confirmed that I died. And later, that he was the one who brought me back.” 

Nadia nodded, her eyes downcast. “I remembered. When you cut open your own arm today, Iris, it was as if a wellspring of memories flooded back to me. I saw you in your bed, your sclera red, Ilya clutching to you as if you were the only thing that bound him to this world. I remembered Asra telling me of Ilya’s attempt on his life after your death, that Asra erased you from his memory. I remembered how...how distraught I was after you died, how I took back to drink.” She twirled the deep, gilded liquid in her glass now, her expression leaden with guilt. “I remember Asra telling me of his unhinged plan to sabotage Lucio’s ritual, to bring you back instead. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t stop either of them. I remember so little of that time, but I remember now how hollow I felt. How pointless, how alone. I could not even share my grief with my grieving friends.” 

Iris placed her hand on Nadia’s back. “You can’t change the past, Nadi. No one can. For better or for worse, I’m here now." Iris smiled sadly. "Alive, kicking and screaming.” 

Nadia smiled. “I don’t think anyone here laments you’re back among the living, Iris, but we both know that prices must be paid for every bargain, every action.” Her eyes flitted to Asra in the dining room, standing in the circle with the rest of the partygoers; suddenly, they all clapped in unison, and laughed triumphantly. “I can’t help but wonder if the true penance for all our actions has yet to be collected.” 

Iris thought of the beetles in the dungeons, and cure for the plague that would require them to go to the Hanged Man’s realm. “I feel the same thing, Nadia.” Iris said quietly, thumbing her drink before taking a sip. She was deep in her thoughts, her gaze starry, when a pair of strong arms lifted her up; it was Asra, his beautiful face flushed with drink. He kissed her passionately, spun her through the air as if she weighed nothing; with a laugh, he set her back down on the marble. He kissed her cheek quickly and gave her a heavy-lidded smile before flouncing back to the dining room. 

Nadia laughed lightly. “It seems they’ve made you part of their game. It can get quite...interesting.” She said, sipping her drink. 

“Oh, no.” Iris said quietly, glancing back at them; there was a peal of laughter from the group as Navra demonstrated a rather salacious dance move. Nadia smiled gently, and placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“Iris, I didn’t call you out here to be comforted by you. I wanted to express my gratitude for you; not just for your actions today, and your willingness to help with the investigation, but everything that came before.” 

Nadia flushed slightly as her gaze met Iris’s. “I saw that you were a good and loyal friend to me when you were at court, but also an ally: a defender of Vesuvia’s people and a clever co-conspirator. It is clear to me that I am stronger today because I knew you then.” She raised her glass to Iris. “You will always have a place at my court, should you choose it, but also, you will always have a place at my side as a friend. If you should need anything, you have but to ask.” 

Iris flushed, and raised her glass. “To our friendship, then. I cherish it, and I will continue to cherish it.” They were about to drink, but another pair of arms wrapped themselves around Iris, going in for a kiss; this time, it was Portia, who pecked Iris on the lips with a giggle and playful wink before scrambling back to the circle. 

“Okay, what is this game, and how did I become a kissing booth?” Iris said with a cocked eyebrow as they both took their drinks. 

Nadia laughed, fully now. “I’m not sure of the exact translation from Prakran, but it’s something like Village Idiot. They must have gotten to the fourth rule, which is an action involving someone who is not playing the game.”

“Oof. Sounds complicated. Especially for a drinking game.” Iris watched carefully now; they had landed on Dara, who it seemed was struggling to remember his rule. When he said something, the whole group groaned, and he took a punishing swig from his stein of beer. 

“Yes, that is the point. Everyone drinks and becomes an idiot.” Nadia said with a sly smile, gesturing Iris into the dining room. “Shall we join them?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: Listen. 
> 
> If I were dying. Feverish and delirious. And was seeing visions of the love of my life that I didn’t. Fucjaoifgsdhoinfsding. Remember. 
> 
> I WOULD WRITE SOME EMO SONG LYRICS IN MY JOURNAL TOO. 
> 
> THAT’S ALL SEE YOU IN pART 2


	5. The Hanged Man, Part 2: Baby, You Give Me Bad Ideas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The National - This Is The Last Time // Robyn - Indestructible**
> 
> _CW: Death by suicide, MCD, aftermath of violence/abuse, guns, drug use._
> 
> _If you are having thoughts of suicide, please talk to a mental health professional, call 1-800-273-8255 (if you’re in the US) or text 741741 (US), 686868 (Canada), or 85258 (UK). Click[here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines) for a more comprehensive list of suicide crisis lines around the world._

Nadia wasn’t kidding; Village Idiot turned out to be an extremely complicated drinking game, involving counting, a dizzying number of rules, some dancing, some kissing (rule 4 was, in fact, kiss Iris on the mouth), and many, _many_ reasons that one might be compelled to drink. By the time they had finally finished, it was well into the night, and everyone involved was red-faced and boisterous. The party kept going, but folks started to bow out; Muriel disappeared without saying good night, followed shortly by Nasmira and Nahara. The quintet of musicians started to pack up their things, so the group moved to Nadia’s private receiving rooms, where they played music for each other, danced, played games, and drank more. 

By the time the clock tower struck midnight, Portia, Bludmila, Dara, and Aster had retired, and Iris was still feeling rather buzzed. On a couch opposite her, Nazali, Nadia, and Natiqa chatted amicably, conspiratorially, as sisters do, their limbs interlocking as they shared updates and gossip, punctuated with intermittent fits of giggling, while Navra strummed a vihuela in a nearby chair, her gaze dreamy. 

At Iris’s side, Asra was dozing, curled up like a cat on the couch cushions, his head on her lap. He had, in particular, drank quite a bit over the course of the night, urged on by Portia, Iris, and Nadia; Iris smiled remembering his adorable drunken laughter, his unrestrained dancing, his uninhibited affection as he embraced her, dropped kisses on her jaw and cheeks, nuzzled his downy hair into her neck. She regretted, a little, convincing him to take the last drink of the Gorzalka that Aster had offered him; it was this drink that felled him, sent him to sprawling on the couch to pass out. She placed a hand on Julian’s thigh; he lounged at her other side, sitting sideways against the couch’s arm, one leg tucked underneath him, the other stretched out long, his foot on the floor. 

He placed his hand over hers, and quietly whispered, “Should we get Asra to bed?” 

Iris smiled gently and nodded, brushing a sweet, ash-white curl out of his face; Asra groaned lightly in his sleep. “My dear, drunken heart.” She whispered. They said their goodnights to the Princesses and Iris cast an unburdening spell on Asra so Julian so could easily carry him back to Iris’s guest room. 

Iris slid open the door, and Julian laid Asra gently on the bed; the magician stirred a little, and with a soft groan, opened one eye, seeing the two figures standing over him. “I overindulged, it seems.”

“A little.” Iris cooed with a small smile, sitting on the bed to help him out of his embroidered boots. “Nothing a night’s sleep won’t fix.” She made quick work of the laces, then reached up to peel Asra out of the fine vest he was wearing. She noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that Julian wasn’t moving, rather hovering awkwardly at the door. 

“Aren’t you going to get ready for bed?” She asked him, lips pursed in a moue of confusion.

Julian shook his head. “I’ll be sleeping in my own room tonight. I’ll see you two in the morning.” His eye lingered on Iris, and despite his coy, knowing grin, his a chill rushed through her: distant, lonely, roaring. Without another word, he slipped out the door. 

Asra’s hand fell onto her arm, his skin warm, his grip tender. “Go.” He whispered and pulled her down into a kiss. “We have so much time...I’m just going to pass out.” 

“Thank you.” Iris whispered, tracing her fingertips down the gorgeous slope of his gleaming cheekbones. “I love you. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“I love you, too.” Asra replied sleepily, his eyes warm, before they dropped closed and he rolled over onto his side. Iris let her hand linger on his muscled shoulder before she stepped out of the room. 

The hallway was empty, and Iris’s heart sank; she didn’t know which room was Julian’s. She let her fingertips trail over the gilded, gorgeous doorframes and sturdy mahogany doors, searching for his energy, his aura. Most of the doors were cold to her, though some were familiar. (Iris noted that the room next to hers seemed to house Dara and Aster, and three doors down from them, sweet Muriel.) She reached the very end of the long hallway, ready to move over to the other side, when a deep crimson-and-orange tinge flooded her vision, and Julian’s familiar presence washed over her, warm and passionate. 

“Iris…” he began, his voice soft and distorted with surprise, but Iris pushed past him into the room.

“What was that about?” She asked as Julian slid the door shut. Julian smiled tenderly, his eyes dark and quiet, with something like defeat. He circled his arms around her waist. 

“It’s selfish...” He murmured. “But if I couldn’t have you to myself tonight, I’d rather sleep alone.” He kissed her hairline, breathing the deep scent of her hair. 

“Oh, Julian...” Iris said, unable to keep the sadness out of her voice. “You can ask. Asra didn’t mind.” 

He hummed against Iris’s temple, the vibrations pleasant against her skin. “I’m surprised he let you go. After seeing you today...in that see-through white dress, that velvet...” He sighed, relishing the memory. “But I think I prefer you in something like this.” His hands on her waist traced the silk of her cheongsam. “Dark, dramatic...same color as your eyes…” He pulled her even closer, burying his nose now into the crook of her neck, lips brushing against the silk. “You’re so beautiful, Iris...."

Iris ran her hands through Julian’s hair. “You’re beautiful too, darling.” She cooed and kissed his neck, the dip of his clavicle. “And...the more I see of your research here at the palace...you’re brilliant, Julian.” 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to butter me up.” Julian said with a chuckle as he gently turned Iris around in his arms, his fingers lingering on her waist before moving to undo the long row of gilded buttons at the small of her back. 

Iris gazed back at him, her chin on her shoulder, her gaze melting and sad. “Is it that hard for you to take a compliment?” She asked; Julian’s face fell, his eyes downcast. 

“I’m sorry. I, er... I’m not exactly used to being showered in praise.” He leaned forward and placed a lingering kiss on her spine, between her shoulderblades. He undid the last button, and tenderly slid his hands up to her shoulders, peeling the embroidered silk off her skin. 

Iris raised an eyebrow. “I thought you liked me in this?” She said teasingly as the silk pooled around her waist; she felt long, cool fingers now brushing against the undersides of her bare breasts, as Julian grasped at her ribs, his breath shuddering a little against her neck. 

“I do...” He breathed, looking down at her over her shoulders. “But there are some sights I can never get enough of.” He laced his fingers into the folds of the half-discarded dress around her waist and pushed it down over her hips; it fell to the floor with a thick thump. Iris could feel him stirring through the leather as one hand trailed down, fingers tracing the crease between hip and thigh. 

Iris leaned back into him, her back flush with his chest, and let a hand float up his neck to his hair, pulling a little as he touched her mound, a long finger caressing her plush lips. She let out a quiet mew and arched her back when he breached her, touching the warm slickness spreading over her sex, a shuddering groan stirring in the back of his throat. 

“Let me show you what you mean to me.” He whispered, tremulously, into her ear; his hand drifted away, and Iris whined at the loss of his touch. He took her hands and lead her to the bed, sitting down on the edge and guiding her to his lap. 

They kissed, their tongues dancing slowly, languidly, in each other’s mouths; Iris couldn’t resist grinding her hips down against Julian’s, earning her a low, liquid groan. He took a hand off of her hip to fumble with his pants, pushing them down so his heavy cock sprang free. Iris pressed against his erection and moaned as she rubbed herself against him; the color rose to Julian’s face and he hummed with pleasure, pulling her lips back to his, kissing her deeply. 

For many minutes, they were a tangle of limbs, Iris’s hands in Julian’s hair, on his shoulders, scratching down his back, tracing his muscular neck, his angular jaw, Julian’s hands roving over the soft skin of her back, down to her ass, over the sweet swells of her belly, cupping her tender breasts. Their kisses grew hotter and heavier, and the sounds Iris made grew louder and more needful. His hot length felt so good, so sinful, rubbing against her sex; she’d never even fantasized about something like this, never thought that she would get off from this, but already she could feel the familiar heat of ecstasy spreading through her belly. 

She grew frantic, her motions desperate; she moaned when Julian met her with smooth, subdued thrusts of his hips. She clutched to him and bit her lip as he stooped to kiss her breasts, a low moan crossing his lips as he grazed his teeth over one of her nipples, before taking it into his mouth and suckling. “Oh, Ilya, I like that...” She purred into his ear. “Keep doing that...” He blushed even more deeply, looking up at her through his lidded, gray eyes, tongue long and flicking against her nipple before the turned his focus to her other breast. 

After several blissful minutes of Julian toying with her, exploring her body, Iris couldn’t take it any longer; she was so close to release, and yet, Julian was so close to her, his erection now slick with her arousal. Her entire body screamed for him, the stretch, the push, the full of having him inside her – she pushed him back onto the bed, and he scooted so he could lay his long, sprawling body down, as she placed her hands on his chest and cast the barrier spell. 

“Are you ready? Is this okay?” She croaked between huffing breaths as she straddled him again, grinding her desperate wetness against him. He kicked his pants off and grasped her waist, the words tumbling breathlessly from him. 

“Oh, fuck, darling...please, yes, please, _molim_...” He moaned as he laid back on the bed, taking in the sight of her body, her flushed face, the sweat on her brow as she grasped his cock and sank herself completely onto him. They cried out in unison, Iris needfully, Julian softly, lips parting with pleasure as she bucked against him, her hands planted on his belly as she shamelessly chased the orgasm half-built by their foreplay.

Julian cupped Iris’s breasts as she rode him, thumbing and pinching her nipples, memorizing the wild, wanton noises, grunts and groans and giggles and whimpers, she made as she used him for her pleasure. She arched her back and cried out when his cock brushed against her sweetest spot, moaned filthily when another wave of bliss broke over her, the swelling in her almost at a fever pitch now, the muscles inside her bearing down on him. 

With a low, dark whine, Julian clutched Iris’s waist and rolled his hips in practiced, skillful motions, making her keen, over and over again. She squeezed her eyes shut and grimaced before gasping, laughing, as the final wave broke over her, her legs trembling and her chest heaving as she slowed her pace, throwing her head back as she came, hotly, wetly, on top of Julian. 

“Iris, yes, oh Iris... _draga, draga_...” Julian moaned, his shuddering voice sweet and animal, his hips and stomach soaked with the ambrosia of her orgasm. As Iris slowed, her heart pounding, her head spinning, he propped himself up on one elbow, his other hand slinking down from her waist to her hip. He opened his knees wide and pulled her hips forward and back on him in long, fluid motions; the new angle had Iris’s clit rubbing against his slick pelvis, his dark pubic hair, his long cock smoothing through her. 

Iris cried out, and planted her hands behind her on his thighs before locking eyes with him, her mouth wide around a moan. “Ilya...that feels so good...Ilya... _Ilya_...”

He grunted and sank his fingers a little deeper into the soft hill of her, rolling his hips, his pupils blown wide with desire as he watched Iris writhe. 

They made love slowly now, Julian’s pace tortuously languid – but they basked in it. They locked eyes, not daring to look away lest they miss a single moment of the other’s pleasure, Iris savoring every delicious, irresistible sensation as Julian prayed to whatever Gods there may be that he never forget this moment, this sight: his beloved’s hair soaked around her neck, her temples, her breasts bouncing, her gorgeous mouth parted and panting as he moved inside of her. 

After many, many minutes, Iris whimpered brokenly, and Julian felt a familiar gripping around him; with a groan, he increased his pace. Iris bit her lips and threw her head back as another orgasm, this one even more powerful, more soul-rending, split through her, her voice not even sounding like her own as she cried out Julian’s name over and over, and he moaned her name softly, encouraging her in her ecstasy. 

“No more...” She whined as she came down, her legs and arms trembling as her body rang like a struck bell. “A different position, I can’t...please...” 

With a growl of satisfaction, Julian sat up and wrapped his arms around Iris’s waist, relishing the fine tremor of her as he laid her down on the mussed sheets. He pulled her shaking legs apart and, squaring up against her, plunged into her warmth with a strangled cry – he arched over her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his lips into hers, their tongues melting together in their heat as he thrusted, harder, deeper. 

Iris hummed loudly and spread her legs wider around Julian’s hips, her knees falling open; he shuddered as she whispered sweet, naughty things against his lips while running her fingernails down his working back. 

“Ilya, yes, yes, you’re so good at that...you feel so good inside me...oh darling, oh darling… you’re so good to me...you’re so _good_...” 

“Iris...” He whimpered, as he reached even deeper into her, his body nearing its edge, heat and pressure and ecstasy building in his groin. “Oh, fuck, darling...” 

She wrapped her legs around his hips, and he moaned as she gyrated against him, gasped as her hands roved down his back to grasp his ass, urging him; he obeyed, his thrusts growing ferocious, pounding. After a minute of this, he reared up onto his knees and grabbed the underside of Iris’s legs without breaking pace, pulling her to him as he let out a series of choked grunts, strained cries of her name, as he spilled himself inside of her. 

Iris moaned, softly, encouragingly, as Julian slowed, kneading the give of her thighs, his voice returning to him as he blushed furiously. After a final, quivering thrust, he lowered himself back over Iris and pressed several long, lazy kisses against her neck, her cheeks, her lips. 

“I love you...” He panted against her skin. “I love you, darling...” 

“I love you, too.” Iris cooed, pulling his lips to hers. They kissed and kissed and kissed until they couldn’t breathe, and when they had their fill, they repositioned, laying the right way in the bed, Iris’s back nestled against into Julian’s chest as she laid her head on his arm. He reached over her to the bedside table, where someone left a washbasin and washcloth; he wet the cloth and pressed it between her legs – Iris gasped a little at the chilliness against her tender skin, swollen from their lovemaking. 

“I mean it.” He muttered, his voice still shaky, as he gently cleaned her. “I love you. I want to be with you, to have a future with you...but whatever happens, know that I love you.” He pressed his cheek into her damp hair, and Iris could feel him tremble. 

“Julian...” She turned to him, her eyes searching his face. “What do you mean? Whatever happens?” 

“I...” He blushed more deeply. “Ah...I, at dinner...I was thinking. Of...of reaching the Hanged Man’s realm. I know it’s dangerous. It’s dangerous for both of us; it may even be dangerous for Asra.” He paused, the quietest of hitches in his voice. “I can reach him on my own, Iris. I don’t want to risk your safety, Asra’s safety, too.” 

Iris turned over and placed her hands on Julian’s cheeks. “That’s absurd, Julian. What are you going to do, inoculate yourself with the plague again?” 

He returned the washcloth to the basin and placed his hands over Iris’s on his cheeks, bringing them down between them. “There are other ways of chasing Death, Iris. I haven’t found one I can’t come back from. I’ve been stabbed, burned, tortured, poisoned, bitten by a vampire eel. I nearly drowned once. Each time, it saved me. The gift. The curse.” 

Iris blinked at him, stupid, eyes hazy and disbelieving. “It only takes one time, Julian. It’s too risky. We just found each other again...what if you die? You really die?” Tears bit at the corners of her eyes. 

Julian gently grasped her face, thumb brushing away a tear as it fell. “This may be risky for me, but the plague coming back? That’s risky for everyone, for all of Vesuvia. Those beetles we saw... it’s only a matter of time before the first person falls ill. Before the first person dies. I would rather be the only one who’s put at risk to retrieve the cure.” 

“No.” She shook her head once, emphatically. “No, Julian, promise me you won’t do anything stupid. Asra said he’d try to send us both to the Hanged Man – we’re putting other things on hold to take care of this.” She looked at him imploringly, pleadingly. “Promise me. Please.” 

Julian sighed, his eyes downcast; he buried his lips in her hair again. “I can’t live with the thought of you getting hurt again.” 

Iris wrapped her hands around his back, rubbing her warm palms against his smooth skin. “I know, I know. But you can’t protect me from everything. We’ll figure it out together, okay?” She kissed his chest, felt his pounding heart under her lips. “Let’s not waste this moment with worry.” 

They cuddled closer, taking in the deep scent of the other, magnified by their sex, wrapping themselves in each other’s comforting warmth. Lulled by the steady susurrus of Julian’s breathing, Iris dropped into a calm sleep.

*******

The murmuring ocean of Iris’s sleep slowly roiled into frightful visions. In one dream, Iris was floating weightless in the starry void, dropping through swirling clouds, split with pink and silver lightning, to a burgundy sea; her toes skimmed the surface of the water, which churned and boiled as if agitated by a swelling storm. In the far distance, she saw a branded hand, a long, pale arm, breach the waves, quickly followed by Julian’s auburn locks, his delirious eyes, as he thrashed helplessly against the surf. With a cry, Iris tried to run to him, until her breath seared, knifed, through her throat, until her legs gave out and she stumbled, water crashing around her, but she never grew any closer. When she called his name, he turned towards her voice, reaching for her, his eyes unseeing, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough – with a scream that was lost to the void, he sank back into the dark water...

Then she was lost in an ancient, stinking swamp, sunk to her waist in murky water, naked as the day she was born; she clawed through the mire, grasping at the twisted roots and trunks of hoary trees as she stumbled, scrambled, compelled by some unknown force to the swamp’s center. She was surrounded by fireflies, but they cast a foreboding red light over her naked skin, the surface of the water, until she finally reached her goal; the mother, her trunk the size of a house, her roots thicker than Iris herself. Suspended from her branches by a thick red silk rope knotted frantically around the ankle was Julian, the rope snaked and laced over his naked body just as it was on Asra’s **Hanged Man** card, but his face, his lips, were sickly blue and bloated, pale as Death…

In the final dream, Iris was down in the dungeons, bent over an operating table that held nothing but a pile of ashes; Iris looked over at the doctors around her, and they were each working diligently with the dust on their tables as if operating on live bodies. There was an alarming sound of chains, rust and metal grinding sickeningly against one another, and Iris turned her eyes towards the raised theater; Quaestor Valdemar was heaving down a pulley that lifted a patient’s body into the air, suspended by the ankles, bound arms dangling uselessly, broad ribs bowing, the stark pattern for a Y-incision drawn darkly against pale skin. With a cackle, the Quaestor pulled down their surgeon’s mask, revealing rows upon rows of sharpened, shark-like teeth, which they sank into the tender flesh of Julian’s torso, rending the skin, blood blossoming, running down his neck, his chin, into his slack mouth…

With a loud gasp, Iris jolted awake, sitting up in the bed, clutching her temples; her head was splitting with pain, and she was covered in a sheen of sweat. She could only blink her eyes open after taking several deep breaths; it was the early hours of the morning, still dark, no sign of sun on the horizon. With a groan, Iris fell back into the bed and turned towards the middle, expecting to find Julian’s arms, the soothing rise and fall of his chest, the gentle kisses he dropped in her hair as he slept. But all she found were cold, empty sheets. 

At first, all Iris felt was a pang of loneliness, thinking he’d just stepped away to the water closet; she sank a little deeper into the sheets and waited, fighting back the sleep that laid heavily on her eyelids, her pounding temples. Minutes passed, then more minutes, then more...far longer than anyone would need to use the water closet, for any reason. Iris’s intuition screamed in her ear, dread and panic intertwined their fingers and clawed their way through her stomach, her lungs, her heart; she scrambled up, and lit the lamp with a flick of her wrist, her eyes darting around the room as she chased her chaotic breath back into her body. 

Everything was in its right place – Julian had hardly used the room, after all, and aside from the pile of shed silk on the middle of the floor, it was as it was when Iris arrived. And then it hit her – Julian’s clothes were gone, his pants, his boots, his shirt, but his satchel, his doctor’s kit, his cloak, were still on the desk, hung over the chair. 

Heart hammering, Iris cast her magic out into the room, searching for something, anything, to soothe her, the harrowing images from her dreams flashing in front of her eyes; opalescent magic swirled through the air and fell a sheet of folded paper on the nightstand by her. Iris took it with shaking hands and, swallowing deep breaths until her heart slowed, unfolded it. It was a note, scratched out hurriedly in Julian’s slanted, impossible handwriting. 

_Darling -_

_Forgive me. The Magician said when the Universe called me to move, I shouldn’t hesitate. My body is in the library. Please protect it._

_I love you._

_\- j_

Around Iris, the air distorted, suddenly hot and tight, as her throat constricted and the edges of her vision burned, the silence of the room roaring like the void in her ears. She was frozen, unable to move, unable to even breathe, as if the Magician held her wrists behind her back, his cruel, snarling laughter on her neck, as if Death had breathed her own frozen kiss on her lips; her hands shook so violently she thought she would rip the trembling note. 

She sat motionless for several agonizing moments, her head and her heart arguing, screaming at each other. When she snapped back, when she was finally able to draw breath, it was as if she was moving through deep water, every motion heavy, fluid, agonizing and slow, too slow: she rose from the bed and conjured clothing onto her back, a simple dress with gauzy sleeves that buttoned up the front. In a moment of intense clarity, she grabbed Julian’s medical bag, not even slinging it over her shoulder before she slid open the door. 

She had no idea how frantic, how crazed, she must have looked, until her eyes fell on the guard making his rounds in the hallway; the poor thing, practically a child, startled when she slammed open the heavy door and skidded out of the room, almost slipping to her knees on the polished marble. When her voice rose to him, it was louder, shriller, than she had ever heard it before, a veritable shriek that sliced through the gentle silence of the night. 

“Portia! Find her! Now!” She screamed, tears streaming down her face as she barreled down the hallway. “The library! I need the keys to the library!” 

He stared at her, dumbstruck, as she rushed past him, landing heavily on the door to her room. When he didn’t move, she turned back, her expression ferocious as she bared her teeth at him. 

“Are you stupid?! It’s an emergency! **_GO_**!” With a terrified gasp, he took off, disappearing around the corner before Iris could catch a breath.

The door slid open in front of her, and Asra appeared, disheveled, his eyes wide and alert, his lips parted. “Iris?!” He gasped, voice steeped in confusion. “I heard you shouting...?” 

Iris just shoved the note in his hand and snapped her fingers – she conjured clothing that wound over his naked back, one of his favorite low-slung shirts, the slippery silk trousers he loved so, as his eyes darted over the letter. 

“Ilya, what the fuck – Iris, what does this mean? Protect my body?” 

Iris was sobbing in earnest now, grasping Asra’s wrists, pulling him into the hallway. “That asshole… he… he wanted to see the Hanged Man alone....to protect us...” 

Asra furrowed his brows. “But...how would he return?”

“His gift, Asra!” Iris cried, her fingernails digging into him as her shoulders shook, violently, and her chest heaved, wracked with sobs. “He thinks his gift will bring him back from the dead!” 

“Iris, you’re hurting me.” Asra said quietly, disentangling his hands from hers and placing them on her cheeks. “I need you to take a few deep breaths. Can you do that for me, my heart? Please?” 

Her eyes were compelled shut, and she felt cool air fill her nostrils, her airways, her lungs, as she breathed in for seven counts, then out for seven counts. She took several breaths, and when she opened her eyes, her heart rate had slowed, her breath calmer, though tears still streamed down her cheeks, onto Asra's fingertips. To her surprise, Muriel had appeared at his shoulder; he read the note silently to himself, mouthing the words slowly, brows furrowed with what Iris could only assume was concern, concern and agitation.

“Good, my heart, there’s my girl.” He cooed, his eyes dark with worry even as his lips brushed against her forehead. “Now...the library.” He turned to Muriel, his voice changing. “Will you...can you come too?” Muriel and Asra’s eyes met, and something passed between them, something that sang dully, quietly through Iris; he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. 

The gleaming hallways blurred as Asra rushed Iris through the palace, Muriel trailing behind – when they arrived at the massive library doors, Portia was already waiting, pacing in an orangepeel dressing robe, her long hair flowing over her shoulders. 

“Iris!” She cried when she saw the three of them. “The night guard… he said it was an emergency?” 

“Please, Portia...” Iris gasped. “The library…” 

Without hesitation, the handmaiden held her keyring to the door; the jewels flew into the wood, and with an echoing clank, they swung open. 

It was dark, but the night was not moonless; nearly full, she cast her silvery, shadowy light around and over the bookshelves through the stained glass window, and Iris recalled the horrible memories she’d seen a week ago, just like this...suddenly, she turned to Portia, grabbing her shoulders, shaking her. 

“You shouldn’t be here. You need to go.” Iris cried, her heart pounding, her eyes darting wildly over Portia features, but slowly, slowly, her eyes grew stark, stark and glazed; the color drained from her sweet face and her mouth grew slack with terror as she fixated on something over Iris’s shoulder. 

Iris whipped around, gaze pointed in the direction of Portia’s, still gripping her shoulders tightly. They were too late. 

They were too late. 

In the same exact spot, from the same exact balustrade as the memories, a rope hung taut. The body spun gently, almost gracefully; for an infinity, a hellish infinity, everything fell away as the image burnt itself into Iris, her mind alarmingly, horrifyingly blank. 

For a moment, Iris wanted to succumb to the blankness, to sink into the void, to let Muriel lead her out of the library and to some warm, soft, safe place where she could lay like the dead for a hundred years, unthinking, unblinking, unfeeling. But then, the adrenaline coursed through her veins like fire, urgent and consuming; she shook off Muriel’s hand and scrambled wildly through the bookshelves to alcove where Asra stood. 

He’d already cut the rope and was now gently levitating Julian’s body down, his expression completely, uncannily, calm; Iris felt a dull ache in her heart for him. This was the second time he had cut his friend’s body down from this exact spot.

Iris threw down the medical kit, somehow still in her hands, she had grabbed it ages, centuries, eons ago, and ripped the flaps open; Asra wheeled back to look at her, his eyes uncomprehending for a moment, before he turned back to Julian’s body, kneeling down at his head. Iris fell to her knees at Julian’s side, stethoscope in hand; futilely, uselessly, she pressed the cold chestpiece against the fair skin over Julian’s heart, and listened. Void, deafening void. She pressed it into the space over his lungs now: the same echoing, unfeeling silence. Iris’s hands shook as she tore the stethoscope off of her ears and pressed two fingers into the skin of his neck, over the carotid; she nearly cried when she found warmth, the quietest wish of heat, and his mark glowed faintly. 

“Asra...” She croaked, tears springing into her eyes. She looked up at him, and saw that he held two fingers over each of Julian’s temples, his eyes glowing terrifyingly bright. When he heard Iris call his name, he relinquished the spell, his shoulders slumping and the light fading from his eyes, leaving only soulful violet. 

“He’s in the Hanged Man’s realm.” He muttered. “But he’s lost. He’s wandering.”

“Send me there.” Iris demanded. “I need to bring him back.” 

Asra took a deep, wavering breath and steadied himself. “I can do that. But…the Hanged Man... Without sending the two of you in together, I can’t guarantee I can find him there. You might... _you_ might not even be able to find him.” 

Iris's heart pounded wildly. “A tether? Could that...?” 

Asra’s eyes vibrated, calculating. “That could work. But it would need to be very powerful. It would need to connect you to him.” 

Iris trembled; she had nothing of the sort. Quickly, wildly, she tore through his bag, upturning it and spilling out its contents, but it was practically bereft of Julian’s personal affects, aside from a journal that held notes from visits with patients (he had seen patients in Vesuvia?). A dead end. 

“Iris...we don’t have a lot of time.” Asra whispered. “Focus on your breath. Listen, listen closely.” His warm hand fell on her thigh, and she covered it with her own, gripping tightly. 

She clawed the other hand through her hair; she could feel her heartbeat rising again, her breath rattling uselessly in her lungs as panic spread. Then, a flash, cold-bright, and she was certain. She bent down and kissed Julian’s cold lips, then gripped Asra’s hand firmly, warmly; he returned her squeeze. “I’ll be right back.” She whispered. She focused herself inward, and her body collapsed into the ether. 

When her body unfolded from the void with a sound like the snapping of fabric, she was in Julian’s office in the dungeons, the damp stone wetting her knees, her dress. It took her a moment to get her bearings – the pathetic, musty bed, the chaotic desk, the stacks of books, the faded diagram on the crumbling shale wall. Her gaze flew to the desk, and she lunged forward, her fingers working the underside of the rough wood until she found what her clairvoyance told her was there – a slightly raised wooden knot, the twin of the knob on the desk in the library, which she pressed two fingers into firmly. A secret drawer swung down on a hinge, and Iris wrenched it open. 

It was filled with miscellanea, folders of reports, quills, oddments, a few velvet pouches of pentacles in a corner, and...Iris’s blood ran cold as her fingers hovered over something she had never seen in the flesh before, only in history books of the last era, the lost era. She knew they existed, surely, that black market dealers still made them, sold them – but they were exceedingly rare, mind-numbingly expensive, and, if you were able to source bullets, the _correct_ bullets, unfathomably deadly. It was sheathed in a soft leather case, wound around with an oiled strap that was undoubtedly meant to be worn around the shoulder so it could easily be unholstered when needed. 

Iris hesitated; she had no idea if it was loaded, or how to properly handle such a weapon. But carefully, carefully, she unwound the straps, until the hilt was visible. She pulled it out, and was shocked at its weight, how cumbersome it felt in her hand. A revolver, each of the six chambers expertly slotted with a bullet, well-oiled and cared for, despite the years that must have passed since Julian last touched it. The energy that radiated from it was menacing, frightening, and she wanted to fling it away, into the ether, never to be seen again, but she heard, felt, Julian in it; it fairly hummed with his memories, many of them surging with anxiety, fear, and pain. Iris bit her lip, and braced herself; she couldn’t tell if this was what her intuition was guiding her to. She needed to see. She let the warmth wash over her. 

_She and Julian were at her shop, the apartment, the hearth roaring behind them. On the little table was the revolver, though it wasn’t loaded; a small pile of bullets glinted ominously, golden and gleaming, in the firelight. A few steps away, at the stove where she had been tending to a modest dinner, a young Iris’s eyes sparked ferociously, angrily. Her long hair was coiled up in a tall, messy bun, and on her neck was a horrifically dark bruise, heavy and plum-colored at the base, lighter lines snaking up to the soft sacred space around her ears, where deep, painful gouges had now scabbed over. A handprint. An awful, alchemical handprint._

_“I can protect you.” Julian said quietly, though both versions of Iris could sense the fine tremor that vibrated between his words. “Please, Iris. Don’t do this.”_

_“I can protect myself.” She practically growled, her nostrils flaring; the air surged with her magic like ozone before a lightning strike. It was not a threat, but a reminder, a cat hissing before it struck. “I don’t like it, Ilya. Don’t you do this.”_

_“I...I’m sorry. I know you can protect yourself, Iris.” Julian said. “I...this isn’t about that.”_

_Iris slammed the wooden spoon down on the counter, sticky grains of rice flinging themselves onto the side of the pot, the counter, the wall. “I **know** , Ilya. What are you going to do the next time Lucy does something like this?” She gestured with her unoccupied hand to her mangled neck. “Shoot him? Kill him? You’ll be swinging from the gallows by sunup.” Her lips trembled around her bared teeth. “You’re no good to me dead, you know.” _

_Julian’s steely eyes flashed. “I’d rather die protecting you than watch you get killed.”_

_“And I would rather get killed than see that hunk of rust backfire on you!” Iris cried, eyes wet. “Ilya, don’t scare me like this, please – this is so reckless –”_

_Julian crossed the small room in one long step and wrapped his arms around Iris’s shoulders – she crumpled into his chest, devolving into sobs. He cooed softly, smoothing her hair, his lips on her ear._

_“I would do anything for you.” He murmured. “I would die for you, Iris, if it meant you were safe. Seeing what he did to you...”_

_“I’m not asking you to do that.” Iris retorted with a sniff. “I can’t stop you from carrying that thing, but I’ll hate every second of it, Ilya.”_

_He brushed a wisp of hair that had escaped from her bun away from her eyes, over her ear. “...I can’t explain how helpless I feel when I see this.” His fingers trailed down to her neck now, and though his touch was gentle, Iris winced. His face fell. “I wish I could take the pain away...”_

_Iris buried her face into his neck. “You’d take away everyone’s pain, if you could.”_

_Behind them, the rice pot boiled helplessly, whistling softly._

Iris furrowed her eyebrows as the dungeon office dissolved back into her vision, a fine mist of goosebumps whispering up her arms, and she felt the ghostly imprint of Lucio’s hand on her neck, the cutting pain of Julian’s helplessness. Another memory called softly to her; she focused on the sound, Julian’s voice, firm and stony, and the heat rushed back to her.

_When Iris opened her eyes, she was in Lucio’s private dining room; there was a very small party around the lavish table, consisting of her past self, Julian, Nadia, and Lucio, who sat at the head. The room was practically silent as they ate._

_Iris attempted to timestamp the memory – she and Nadia were dressed finely, and their clothing was summer-weight, but rather than the soft blues, purples, and greens of the warmer months, they were dressed in golds, oranges, burgundies. Perhaps early autumn, a hot one at that. She noticed the doors to the balcony just off the dining room were thrown open, tempting a breeze that would not be tempted._

_Memory-Iris cast a long glance at Julian by her side. They were both tense – with a start, Iris realized the revolver must be stowed somewhere on his person. She could feel Julian’s heart pounding in her chest – he was barely eating, he was so anxious. It was the memory of her who broke the silence._

_“Well, the swordfish is absolute shit, Nadia. Give my regards to the chef.”_

_Nadia crinkled her nose slightly. “Yes, he never does get the spicing quite right.”_

_That Iris nearly choked, then laughed. “I was kidding, Nadi. The swordfish is delicious. And I could live off of this squash puree alone.”_

_Nadia looked sadly down at her plate. “Whenever I get a craving for spiced swordfish, I think of the spices of Prakra, of my childhood. I forget how difficult it is for Vesuvian cooks to use these spices properly.”_

_“That’s my Noddy.” Lucio sneered, swirling a glass of Sonnet Lore lazily in his palm. “Impossible to please.” He then cleared his throat. “I’ve asked you to dine with me today because I’d like to make some adjustments to our current arrangement.”_

_All three of them looked up at him. They had all gotten very good at their poker faces, but Iris saw varying expressions of confusion and panic flicker over their features before they settled into stillness._

_“What arrangement, beloved husband?” Nadia asked, her voice honey, dripping, slow._

_Lucio grinned. “Well, with all three of you working so diligently on the cure for the plague, there is no one to entertain me in the evenings, and I find myself quite...bored.” Lucio turned to Iris, leering at her. “I’d like to bring the pretty fool into my household.”_

_There was a small sound of wood scraping on tile as Julian jolted, his eyes wide. Thinking quickly, he pounded on his chest with his fist and coughed, feigning choking. Memory-Iris placed her hand on his shoulder, as if in worry, but corporeal-Iris could see that she was gripping his shoulder so tightly her knuckles were white. She was terrified._

_Nadia turned back to Lucio. “I have been very much enjoying Iris’s company in the evenings while I study. It’s quite convenient that we are both practicing under Ilya – we help each other.”_

_The grin on Lucio’s face twisted into a grotesque snarl, showing his teeth. “See, I thought of that. You and Iris can still study together with Jules in the morning, and I would allow for her to accompany you in the afternoons should you choose. But in the evenings...” he licked his lips. “I should like to have her to myself.”_

_“Lucio, surely you see that doesn’t give Iris time to...”_

_“ENOUGH!” Lucio pounded his gilded fist into the mahogany table, making the silver rattle ominously. “It has been arranged. Do not resist or it will be much worse for all of you.” He stood imperiously and grabbed his glass of wine, strutting out onto the balcony._

_There was a heart-wrenching gasp, and memory-Iris broke into breathless, heaving sobs, clutching at her temples. Nadia rose quickly from her chair and rushed to Iris’s side, placing her hands on her panicking friend’s shoulders._

_“Nadia...please don’t...please do something...”_

_“I will not allow this, Iris. I will do everything I can to prevent this.” Nadia insisted, but corporeal-Iris could see it from Nadia’s eyes, wine-drunk and frightened and welling, rushing across Iris’s contorted features; she, too, was powerless._

_Julian watched the scene through faraway eyes – Iris felt, rather than anxiety or panic, a certainty in him, an acceptance, which shook her to her core. He wrapped an arm around memory-Iris and kissed her cheek, his lips lingering for a moment on her skin – Iris felt the warm rush of his devotion, and the fierce, animal desire to protect the woman he loved. Then, he rose from his chair, striding on long legs over to the balcony and stepping into the balmy night._

_He closed the door behind him and leaned forward over the balcony, placing his elbows on the stone balustrade, not far from where Lucio stood. The entire city of Vesuvia was laid out below them, lights twinkling in the tricks played by the heat. Lucio regarded him curiously, his lip curled._

_“To what do I owe this audience, Jules?”_

_“Me for her.” He stood up and squared off his shoulders with Lucio. “I’ll...entertain you in the evenings. For months, that’s what you’ve begged for, hm?” He raised an eyebrow – his gray eyes were clear, his expression stony, inscrutable._

_Lucio considered this, tilting his chin up, his eyes roving hungrily over Julian’s shapely frame. “How very noble of you. I will allow it.”_

_Julian trembled, and Iris felt the jumble of emotions that coursed through him – relief, but also disgust, fear, hatred, self-loathing. He took a deep breath._

_“I have one condition.” Julian warned. “If we do this..stay away from Iris. For good.”_

_“Or you’ll what...slit my throat in my sleep?” Lucio laughed, cruelly. “You don’t have the guts.”_

_Julian smarted as if he had been slapped, and Lucio cackled again._

Iris fell out of the memory with a gasp, as if icy water had been doused on her – she thought her heart would explode through her sternum, it was pounding so hard. The leverage...Lucio’s leverage over Julian – she thought she might be sick again. She realized she was clutching the revolver to her chest – carefully, gently, she put it down on the desk. 

She ran her fingers across the velvet pouches in the corner of the hidden drawer. She had thought they all would be stuffed with gold, emergency pentacles, but one, buried under the others, was painfully small, practically vibrating with sadness. She carefully unloosed the drawstring and let the contents tumble into her hand; it was a ring, thin and delicate, inlaid with a row of tiny round moonstones and onyx, the phases of the moon. 

She took the ring carefully and brought it up to her gaze, examining it. A voice called to her, faintly, weakly – it was her own, steeped with mind-rending pain. Her breath caught in her throat and tears sprung into her eyes, but she sank down into the sweltering heat of the memory. 

_It was morning, early, faint sunlight washing the bedroom in gentle shades of pastel pink and gold, but the beauty of the sunrise was lost on Iris. She was drenched in sweat, and the fine sheets of the bed were twisted around her like chains. She hadn’t slept, and felt as if she was being burned alive – she was consumed with a powerful fever, every inch of her body aching. She was so weak she could barely lift her head when the door to the bedroom opened quietly, and Julian slunk into the bedroom, his shoulders slumped. He had been gone all night, again._

_“Ilya...” She croaked; she could hardly stir up enough air to make a sound. “Where have you been?”_

_Julian turned to her, his features warped with shock – he hadn’t slept either, it seemed, the bags under his eyes deep like bruises, his skin waxen. His gray eyes lit up in panic as he rushed clumsily to their bed, the little color he had in his cheeks draining away._

_A coughing fit shook Iris, wracking her body so violently that she nearly sat up in redoubled pain. The sudden rush of air felt like razorblades slicing her throat; she tasted blood, felt it blotting the back of her tongue. Her eyes were screwed shut in pain. Julian’s strong hand wrapped around her back gently, but the other found her chin and forced it in his direction, making Iris whimper. “Open your eyes, Iris.” He commanded, the alarm in his voice palpable._

_There was nothing she could do – she had worked too long in the palace, alongside him, to not know what consumed her. She opened her eyes, meeting Julian’s panicked gaze; the sclera were a bright, bloody red._

_Julian’s eyes darted all over her face, his breath catching audibly in his throat; tears swelled in the corners of his eyes as he scrambled away from the bed and ran to the door, slamming his body into the doorframe as he wrenched it open again._

_“Guard!” He wailed. “The Countess, at once! It’s a matter of thistle!”_

_There was a sound of steel clanking, feet stomping urgently away. Julian closed the door behind him and surveyed Iris in the bed, his mouth agape, his eyes swimming._

_“Oh, Iris, darling...darling...” He put on his fearsome doctor’s mask, the beak stuffed with camphor, rosemary, and sage. He sat on the bed next to her, placing his hand on her forehead. It was a neutered gesture – they both knew she was burning hot. Iris weakly placed her hand over his, their fingers intertwining._

_“How long?” He murmured to her, smoothing her long hair with his other hand, his cool fingers lingering on her cheek._

_“Past dusk...maybe 7 hours?” She groaned._

_“65 hours...” He whispered to himself, tears falling from his eyes now._

_The door flew open – it was Nadia, in her dressing robe, flanked by Ami and Primula, all of them wearing protective masks over their noses and mouths. Nadia’s was a beautifully wrought owl’s beak, stuffed with lavender, roses, camphor, and rosemary. The smells in the room overwhelmed Iris, sending her back into a throat-shredding coughing fit that speckled the crook of her elbow with blood._

_“Iris? The code was for Iris?” Nadia’s eyes, wide in alarm, rounded on Julian, panic seeping into her voice. He nodded, the beak of his mask bobbing grotesquely._

_“...Ilya...sh...she must go to the Lazaret.” Nadia’s voice was firm, but her eyes were misty. “You know this. There is no other way.”_

_“Please, Nadi.” He begged, his voice cracking. “Is there nothing you can do? Just to keep her here until...” He choked audibly; he couldn’t finish._

_Nadia shook her head. “If you were nobles...if you were married...I might be able to–”_

_“I’ll marry her now.” Julian grasped Iris’s hand tighter, gently thumbing her knuckles, dry and cracked from their grueling work in the dungeons. “I’ll do anything, please...”_

_Nadia raised her voice now – it trembled with authority, but also with sorrow. “Ilya, this is not easy for me either. I cannot put the other residents of the palace at risk, not after... I cannot allow it. I will not.” Her voice softened. “We all knew this was a possibility. We know the risks.”_

_“Nadi – Iris –” Julian sobbed now, his shoulders crumpling, shaking._

_Iris grunted, and the pair fell silent, turning their eyes to her. “I’ll sell my body. For research. Dissection.” Painfully, she leaned on an elbow and hoisted herself up – Julian’s hand flew protectively to the nape of her neck. “Take me to the dungeons, with the others. Put the money in the alms fund.”_

_“Darling, no –” Julian cried, but Nadia nodded solemnly. Iris could see the tears._

_“I’ll call on the Quaestor to have it arranged.” She hesitated for only a moment, one hand outstretched, uncertain – then, with a sweep of her robe, she exited the room, Primula and Ami filing out behind her. Beside her, Julian’s body trembled again – he removed his mask and let it fall from his hands off the side of the bed. His cheeks were soaked with tears; Iris lifted a hand to sweep them away, her fingers lingering on his jaw._

_“This way...” Iris began, her voice faint. “We can at least be together. Until the end.”_

_“Iris, I’m so sorry...” He wrapped his hand around hers and leaned into her arm. She could feel his chin quiver as fresh tears fell onto their fingers. “I tried...”_

_“How could you protect me from this?” Iris said quietly, laying back down, exhausted. Seeing Julian cry wrecked her, and she felt tears slip down her own cheeks now. “I knew what I was getting into.” Julian laid down in the bed next to her, placing his hand on her chest, his touch achingly gentle._

_“Don’t you catch it too.” Iris teased, voice weak. “Who will save Vesuvia if you’re gone?”_

_Julian reply was hardly a whisper. “I won’t waste this time with worry.” He kissed her temple, and reached into his pocket, procuring the ring with a flourish – even now, he couldn’t resist a touch of drama. “I was going to give this to you tonight.”_

_Iris’s head pounded – she cinched her brows together. “Tonight…?”_

_“Yes.” He kissed her forehead now. “Tonight. One year ago.”_

_“Oh, Ilya...” She breathed. She held out a trembling hand for him, and he slipped the ring onto her finger; it fit perfectly. It was perfect._

_“It wasn’t to be anything but a gift, but...” He kissed both of her eyes, slowly, softly. “I meant what I said.”_

_“Marriage?” Iris coughed again, and Julian wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close while she retched. “No one will marry us, Ilya. Not like this.”_

_“That doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that...that you know I love you. That I consider you my...my partner, my true love. That you…you...” The words caught in his throat, burning like fever – he was sobbing again._

_Iris shushed him, her hands smoothing down his hair. “I know, Ilya. I love you, too.” They were silent for a moment, their foreheads touching._

_“Let me...” Julian began, his voice raw in his throat. “Let me give you something for the pain.”_

_Iris nodded; Julian got out of the bed and fussed with the medical supplies littered around the room, returning quickly with a sterile syringe filled with a clear liquid. He expertly found Iris’s vein in her arm, painlessly inserted the needle, and pushed the plunger down – she cringed as the morphine seared a hot path through her nerves, fading in to chilly nothingness._

_“Before I forget...” Iris whispered, her eyelids growing heavy as new tears sprung up in her eyes. “Happy birthday, Ilya.”_

This was it – the tether Iris needed to reach Julian in the Hanged Man’s realm. She returned with a gasp and slipped the ring onto her ring finger. Oh, it was so warm on her skin, the dainty band so smooth; she pressed her lips against it as her atoms collapsed in on themselves and she disappeared from the dungeon. 

She cracked into the library with a shuddering, gasping breath, stumbling forward onto her knee; Asra reared up from where he was kneeling, putting the finishing touches on a circle, drawn hastily in chalk on the polished wood floor of the library, the carpet flung away. In the center was Julian’s body, but there was ample space for another body to lay next to his – hers. At each of the four apexes of the circle was a small bowl of water, complex drawings Iris had never seen before; he had even somehow procured moonflowers, with one long tendril, one dainty blossom, laying in each of the bowls of water. 

Muriel had returned, stationed in front of the bowl directly across from Asra, the southern point. Shockingly, Portia was there too, though she sniffled furiously, sitting at the eastern point on her knees; Iris was touched to see that Muriel was holding her hand, smoothing a callused thumb gently over the fleshy pad of her palm. With a final flourish, Asra finished the circle; the sigil glowed once, brightly, then calmed. 

There was a clamor as the doors to the library swung open again; in mere moments, Nadia appeared, her hair disheveled, her silky dressing gown clinging to the sweat that gathered on her clavicle, her chest; she was panting, as if she had sprinted to get here. Her garnet eyes swam over the body in front of her, the impossible scene, and she opened her mouth to speak, but it was Portia’s hand who rose to Nadia’s, grasping firmly. 

“There’s no time to explain now.” She said breathlessly, pulling Nadia down to the final point of the circle. “We’re sending Iris to the Hanged Man’s realm. Take Muriel’s hand.” Nadia took his large hand without question, her eyes still swimming with confusion as she flung her gaze from Portia, to Muriel, to Asra, and finally, to Iris. 

Asra turned to Iris. “Did you find what we need?” He asked. She held out her left hand to him, and he leaned forward to examine it; he sighed unsteadily, painfully – he recognized it. “That will certainly do.” 

He held a hand out to her, as if to help her step over the circle, but as she took it, he pulled her into an embrace, pressing his forehead to hers. Iris trembled at his warmth, the way his hands shook against her cheeks. “Please, Iris...please be careful.” He whispered against her lips. “Please come back to me, my heart.” 

“I always will, Asra.” She whispered, twining her hands up to his cheeks, so they were mirror images of each other. “I love you. Thank you for doing this.” 

“I love you, too.” He kissed her. “Go find him. For us.” 

He helped her over the circle, as not to muss the chalk, and she laid down carefully; she was so close to Julian’s body that she could practically feel the cold emanating from his chilly skin, and she nearly jerked her hand away when her fingers brushed against his; she quieted her nerves and, with a rush of resolve, cupped her hand over his. 

Asra took Nadia’s hand on his left and Portia’s on his right, and muttered something that Iris didn’t register. She felt disoriented as the circle glowed around her; then, the airless rush of the void screamed through her ears, ripped through her hair, threatened to unravel her from the inside out. And, as soon as it began, it stopped, and she plunged face-first into murky, warm, stinking water, the impact ripping the air from her lungs. 

She was in the Hanged Man’s realm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: Sweet, dumb, darling Juli. 
> 
> If you’re having thoughts of suicide or feel triggered by this content, call the hotline (1-800-273-8255), talk to a mental health professional, or confide in a trusted friend/ally who can get you to safety. Click [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines) for a more comprehensive list of suicide crisis lines around the world.
> 
> Take care of yourselves, my friends. See you in part 3.


	6. The Hanged Man, Part 3: If I Stay Here, Trouble Will Find Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Cursive - The Recluse**
> 
> _CW: Gun use, violence, references to suicide_

At first, it felt awfully like a dream, the horrible stillness of the water, the faint energy Iris sensed in it, like the water in the cave. Below her (below her?) light slanted through the surface, and she could see something red, something ominous, something undulating through the wavering eyes where the light passed through. She was so far away, so far up, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to swim down to the surface in time, but she realized she didn’t feel the telltale burn in her lungs; in fact, her lungs were not working at all, her heart barely pumping, but she was fine, she was fine. She decided that, for now, she didn’t need to breathe, and used her magic to propel herself gracefully to the surface. 

Her vision flipped, almost giving her vertigo as her mind righted itself. It was the swamp from her dreams, almost. Twisted black mangrove trees and their roots snaked into and out of the tepid water, which now only came up to Iris’s waist. The trees were draped with heavy vines, some that were covered in thorns and snares. Red fireflies glittered all around her, their shining thoraxes gleaming like rubies, and the sky itself was a vivid, undulating scarlet. 

The world around her seemed terrifying, but Iris wasn’t afraid. The Hanged Man did not appear often in Iris’s readings, but like most of the Arcana, he was a friend to her. He guided her through times of uncertainty, urging her to take a step back and reassess, let go. To trudge through this frightening swamp was to trudge through the frightening swamp of the self. 

On her hand, the ring pulsed faintly, gold glinting and warm. Earthside, it had fairly hummed with her and Julian’s energy, sweetness, sadness, the smell of his hair, the bark of his laughter; here, it was only a spark, soft and instantaneous – hardly an echo, but it was Julian, calling her name, voice crackling with urgency. 

She took off in the direction of the voice, or at least, she tried; she tried to use her magic to part the water, but it sputtered and coughed, the water barely rippling. She tried to propel herself forward, as she had in the deep water, but that was a bust, too. Sighing with frustration, she began the long trudge, grateful for her clairvoyance allowed her to still hear the tether here. There was no cheating the Hanged Man. 

It was slow going, and Iris paused every few minutes to listen for the tether, whether she was headed the right way. It was impossible to keep any sense of direction in this realm, and a soft swell of panic bubbled in her chest when she considered that she might be going in circles, passing the same damned mangrove trees, the same twisted black roots. She was entirely soaked, her dress drenched, and though the water wasn’t cold, the air around her was – she began to shiver, even as she sweated from hauling her body through the swamp. 

She nearly cried when something flickered in the distance, as she wrenched her trembling legs through the heavy water towards it – it was a rend, a mirror into some kind of frozen moment. A sumptuous layered custard, thick layers caught mid-ripple, fresh berries frozen in their upset trajectory, the heavy plate that held it slipping from a child’s shaking hands, wrapped in the bubble-thin film of remembering.

Ahead of her, Iris saw more of these moments of stasis: a streak of lighting bottled, like gold ink spilled on charcoal paper as it slashed through the top of a tall conifer tree; surf rolling over sand, a hermit crab frozen mid crawl, one tiny pincer extended; two pairs of pale lips, one’s tongue glittering wetly against white teeth, parted with want, with need, paused right before the moment of impact; a wineglass spilled, coils of blood red flung across the surface of the bubble. No, more than more – they hung in the air as far as Iris could see, practically dripping from the trees like some unusual orchard.

Iris trudged through this menagerie of memories, careful not to accidentally brush against the surface of the bubbles. Some of them were achingly familiar, like the memory of the dessert; some didn’t speak to her at all, and some...some whispered to her, their voices taunting, beckoning. Iris wanted so desperately to reach her hand through the surface of these memories, to touch what was inside. Suddenly, roots around her lifted up, and she tripped, stumbled forward, her shoulder brushing against one of the bubbles, bursting it. A bright fog clouded Iris’s vision, steaming hot, and she fell forward into a memory. 

_The marketplace around Iris was not at all like the market in Vesuvia; rather than low-slung buildings of warm, baked clay, these were gray, stony, cold and tall, their surfaces almost slimy in the morning mist. She sat with her back to one of these buildings, shivering in a thin, torn cloak of cheap flannel; the shift from early to late autumn had caught her off guard, and the simple peasant’s shirt, the full, patched skirt she wore, did little to cut the cold._

_This was welcome. After a year and a half on the street, Iris understood the optics. She did nothing to stop the fine tremor of her shoulders, knowing her cheeks, still full with the cling of childhood, were bright, alluringly pink, enhanced only a touch by the salve the older girls had showed her to make, with crushed rose petals from the public parks and the beeswax they were given from the kindly beekeepers in Queen’s Sanctuary. At 14, she stood on the threshold of adolescence, the perfect, perfect age to beg; women still saw her as a child, and the men, well...Iris was still learning to forgive them for the way they looked at her as they dropped copper lyras or silver ursas into the canvas bag at her feet._

_One such man was approaching her now, wrapped in a sensible but finely-wrought cloak; his dark eyes roved over the sweet swells of her cheeks, her light, dirty hair, the peek of fluted collarbone, before dropping an obscene jangle of coins into her pouch, a few glittering gold stelaras. Iris’s eyes darted to the shadows of the alley next to her, as if embarrassed, and she coughed dryly, twice, before murmuring, “Thank you, sir.”_

_The man merely nodded, and Iris couldn’t tell if he was flushing from shame or from the cold, but as he passed the alley, the shadows gently warped as a slip of a woman slunk out, wrapped in a dark cloak, the finest any of their little pack of urchins had, slung over her shaved head, obscuring her face. She tailed the man, keeping a few long paces behind, until he reached the intersection, and then she bumped into him rather dramatically. “Sorry, gov...” She drawled, placing a hand innocently on his arm as he wheeled on her; he reddened considerably, and nodded, before turning back to the street, crossing while the woman paused, as if getting her bearings, and then turned back to Iris and winked._

_In a flash, Iris was on her feet and sprinting down the alley, her bare soles smarting against the chilly cobblestones. The filthy city rushed through her view as she wound her way through the backstreets, out of the market sector to the beggar’s quarter, where she slowed on a backstreet of abandoned flats, hovering in front of a stairway down to an abject basement apartment for a few minutes, catching her breath._

_Soon, the shadowy girl appeared from a different alley, throwing her hood back and laughing wildly, raucously. It was a young Aster, not much shorter than the Aster Iris knew now, the same gap in her teeth, the same full lips, the same musical voice._

_“You’t tink de rich would hang on more closely to dere wallets.” She said quietly, her accent thicker, holding up a sumptuous leather billfold. Iris’s heart fluttered as she shouldered open the door to the abandoned apartment._

_It was a drafty two-room studio with a kitchenette and a water closet that barely worked on the good days, covered in far more bedfolds than such a cramped space should ever hold. Some of the older girls were still alseep, having worked through the night (it was only after a few nights of going to bed hungry and cold that Iris understood, she understood, she would never judge now), and Iris and Aster were quiet as Iris dumped the coins out from her purse and Aster pulled the paper aras out of the billfold, counting quickly. Both were stunned. There were hundreds of stelaras here, enough to feed them both for several weeks._

_“Jackpot.” Aster said quietly, and Iris felt her hands shake as her lips trembled. She looked up to Aster._

_“We could get meat.” She whispered to her. Aster gasped, a wild smile spreading across her face._

_“Chicken thighs in curry…” She whispered, thinking of the foods of her childhood, from Hispaniola._

_“Stew beef...” Iris countered, thinking of the sumptuous gravy her mother used to make to thicken the stew of root vegetables, herbs and beef tips when she was younger. Then, they both gasped._

_“Lamb!”_

_Iris almost drooled thinking of shepherd’s pie, thick mashed potatoes and ground, spiced lamb in a rich sauce, spiked with carrots and peas; her stomach growled loudly._

_Aster crowed with joy, and the two girls collapsed into each other in a fit of giggles as the memory receded from Iris in a cold mist._

Iris froze as the swamp materialized in front of her. Were these...her memories? She scrutinized the frozen scenes in front of her carefully, trying to find something, _something_ that was familiar, that would clue her in. Her pulse pounded thickly in her veins when she found something that she recognized; tall, swaying winter-lilies standing proud against a chilly, slate-gray sea. 

Iris’s heart twisted, and she paused. It could be a trick of this place, one of the Arcana’s tests – she thought of the Magician, of the three Asra’s staring back at her with the same arch, wicked expression. She knew better. She knew better. And yet...she gently touched the surface of the bubble; it popped wetly against her skin, and she was plunged inward with a rush of heat. 

_She was on the hill of lilies, and they were in full bloom, but it wasn’t quite the spot Iris had seen in her memory with Asra; in the distance, she saw a large house in the Albanese style, tall glass windows and stone, a large painted wooden door with a round transom. The wind whipped softly around her, and carried on it, she heard a child’s laughter. Iris’s heart tightened, and she turned. What she saw made her gasp._

_It was her, no more than five or six, running through the lilies, chased by a red-headed man she could only assume was her father; on his head was a riot of ginger curls, his kindly face practically covered in dark, thick freckles, his eyes and mouth lined with years of laughter. He was a sturdily built man, his trunk thick and strong, his limbs muscular; he wore the simple, comfortable clothes of scholars, subdued grays and tans, but with his sleeves rolled up, Iris could see the shapeliness of his arms, the beginnings of the dark blue tattoos of one of the Alban tribes around his elbows. She had his nose, slightly long, slightly upturned, and his deep, indigo blue eyes._

_With a loud faux-roar, he scooped up the flaxen-haired child, her long hair braided and looped into little buns at the sides of her head, and pressed raspberries into her chubby cheeks as she shrieked with laughter._

_“Russell!” A soft voice that sounded achingly like her own called across the flowers. “You’ll wear her out before we even have tea!”_

_Iris wheeled around; about a hundred yards away, a short, curvy woman with a delightfully round face framed by long ice-blonde hair, was sitting on a spread-out blanket, putting the finishing touches on a small picnic: a silver tea set, a tiered ceramic plate laden with cookies and hand cakes and sandwiches, a vase of freshly plucked lilies. A little ways away, a kettle was steaming over a small fire; her mother poured the now-simmering water into the little teapot, filled with a sweet berry tea._

_With another roar, her father placed child Iris on his shoulders and charged towards the picnic, which sent her mother sprawling laughing at the sight. He slowed comically as they reached the blanket, and, as if in slow-motion, he swung a giggling Iris onto the blanket, stooping to plant a kiss on his wife’s cheek. He sat besides them and, with a loud groan, laid his head down on Selene’s lap as she placed a delicately braided crown of lilies on their daughter’s head._

_“Happy birthday, little lily.” She said softly, the proudest smile on her face._

_“Our pretty peony.” Her father said, reaching out and tugging on Iris’s cheek._

_“Our sweet rose.” Her mother poured tea into Iris’s dainty teacup as the child reached for the plate of sweets in front of her. A big smile spread across her face; she was already missing a tooth._

_“I’m not those things!” Child-Iris said loudly, her eyes twinkling at their private joke. “I’m Iris!”_

_They all laughed, and Iris gasped, resisted, as she was sucked back into the chill of the swamp._

Iris came to in tears, her hands shaking. She had no memories of her parents’ faces, no drawings, no paintings, nothing. She would be lying if she said she had never lain awake at night, Asra asleep in her arms, and wondered what her parents had looked like, who they were, how they loved each other, how they loved her. She turned her eyes to the other bubbles around her, the suspended memories. Were all of her lost memories here? Memories of her parents, her childhood, of Aunt Opal, of Aster, of Nadia, of Julian, of Asra? She reached towards another, this one of what looked like a bed, but a voice cut through the dark silence. 

“Careful now, child.” 

Iris’s gaze shot to to the tops of the trees, towards the direction of the interruption, and for a moment, her mind couldn’t wrap itself around what she saw. It was her, practically a reflection, perched on the branch of a heavy tree. She wore the same dress, but black, the buttons of shimmering moonstone. Her light hair was long and wild, wavy and thick with mats in some places, and Iris could see tiny rubies like pomegranate seeds wound through it, glimmering dully on delicate silver threads. The sclera of her eyes were horrifically red, the iris and pupils an animal black; her lips were turned into a knowing, sensuous grin. 

“Recognize me?” She asked, her voice low and velvety, one corner of her mouth lifting. “It’s been a few years...”

Iris blinked, furrowed her brows. It was not an echo of herself, but something using her form, and she was achingly, comfortingly familiar. The name came to her across her lips before her mind could even form the thought. 

“Death.” 

Death smiled fully, wildly. “Clever girl. I knew you’d remember.” 

“What are you doing here?” Iris asked, still trying to wrap her mind around this realm and its tricks. She bristled a little, uncertain. 

“What, a girl can’t visit her neighbor?” Death said with a raise of a full, dark eyebrow. She jumped now from the branch and landed gracefully on the water as if it were solid ground, crouching in front of Iris so they were at eye level. “You know I can’t lie to you, Iris. Don’t get so wound up.” 

“ _Why_ are you here, then?” Iris asked, her eyes flitting to the frozen memories around her. 

Death settled into a cross-legged seat and lifted her chin to the suspended bubbles. “You figured it out. These are your memories. We kept them here after you were resurrected. You’ve wandered here every once in a while to retrieve one, pluck it from the air like a ripe little apple. As we expected.” Death mimed picking a fruit with a dramatic gesture. “What we didn’t expect is that you’d actually _come_ here, see them in the flesh. If you want to harvest the whole damn orchard, to stay here in the Hanged Man’s realm, that’s a choice you can make. One he might welcome, truthfully. Sadistic fucker.” 

“But choices have consequences.” Iris said, not missing a beat. 

Death clicked her tongue, made a checkmark gesture with her finger and her thumb. “Bingo.” 

“And I don’t have a lot of time. Asra can’t sustain the spell forever, and Julian...” 

“His clock is ticking down even faster.” Death raised her eyebrows, nodding. “So it’s stay, or press forward.” 

Iris hesitated a moment, but only a moment. “I can’t stay.” 

“Good girl.” Death ruffled Iris’s hair affectionately. “I like the short hair, by the way. It suits you. I might steal it.” 

Iris arched a brow, her lips parted with curiosity. “Why are you helping me?” 

“Ah.” Death exhaled, biting the nail of her thumb; the fingernails were painted a blood red, tinged with fuchsia, like pomegranate juice. “Yeah, I don’t think birdbrain will be too happy I’m interfering, but what I can I say? I’m a sucker for a love story. I’m rooting for the crazy kids. All three of you.” She grinned again, wildly, fully, baring pointed canines. “I let you go, after all. Sweet Ilya flirts so _deliciously_ with me...always has. And, Asra...well, he drove a hard bargain for you. He was _very_ determined.” Death licked her lips at the memory.

Iris started. “He dealt with you, too?” 

Death shrugged. “He had to, didn’t he? You were with me.” 

Iris blinked back this information. “What was the deal?” 

Death chuckled. “You always were a curious girl.” With a wicked grin, she leaned back and fell into the water with a silent splash, disappearing from Iris’s view. 

Iris stood stock-still for a moment, taking in the conversation she just had. Death had visited her, then vanished as quickly as she appeared. Iris shook herself; she didn’t have time to unpack it. She trudged on. 

After what felt like hours of slogging through the swamp, her memories receded, but Iris didn’t look back, even though her heart broke to move forward. She kept checking the tether; her pulse pounded as the sound of Julian’s voice grew louder and louder. Closer. 

She nearly cried when the water started to recede, and Iris could move more quickly through the mire. The vines here were much thicker, the branches thornier; it was still slow going, the water to her shins, but at least now she wasn’t pruning, not soaking wet, her legs not shaking from the exertion. She pushed through the vines and brambles, trying to stay mindful of the thorns. Blood held powerful magic in the human realm, and here...well, there was no telling, and Iris didn’t have time to find out. 

Behind her, there was a sudden ear-splitting shriek, and a flapping of wings as a flock of crows cut through the sky and swooped down, flying past her, the force lifting the hem of her dress, blowing back her hair. She covered her face and spun away, letting the birds rush by over her back, but she stumbled again; instinctively, she reached for a handhold to steady herself, her fingers finding purchase on a thick vine. She gasped in pain, and pulled away; her hand was bloody, pricked by several thorns, sharp and thick as talons. 

In a flash, the trees around Iris sprung to life, vines uncoiling and snaking towards her, trees swaying and groaning; the vines, their thorns, dug deeply into her ankles as they bound her. They spiraled up her legs and her arms, and she whimpered, struggled; she tried to summon a stream of fire to knock them back, forgetting her magic was useless here, the flames sparking feebly at her fingertips. She cried out, tried to wrench her hands away, kick out her feet, as the branches of a mighty tree now wrapped themselves around her waist and lifted her; she screamed and flailed when she was turned upside down, hung by her ankles, the vines growing tighter as they crossed her chest, her neck, threatening to strangle her. 

Iris’s intuition whispered gently to her, even as she flailed. _Stop struggling. Let go. Trust._ How many times had the Hanged Man compelled her to submit? To step back so she could see with clear eyes? With a howl of frustration, Iris relented, letting her body fall limp, her eyes close. The thorns retracted on the vines, and they loosened their grip slightly; not enough to let her drop, but enough to ease the pain, to keep her skin from bruising and splitting. The susurrus of the branches and trees eased into a soft rustle, almost like the breath of a spring wind through the forest she loved so, the gentle presence of a friend.

Iris breathed in for seven counts, and out for seven counts, letting the blood rush to her head as her heart rate slowed; she felt her intuition intensifying, clarifying, its voice growing louder, the voice of the tether growing louder in her heart, in her ears, Julian’s voice calling her name. No...no? Was that…?

Iris let her eyes flutter open. She hadn’t felt any movement, but she was no longer in the bramble of thorns; in front of her was a small clearing in the mangroves, the dense fog needled through with ominous red light from a strange, filigreed iron lamppost. At its foot, Julian knelt, his head in his hands, face contorted in pain, in confusion. 

Across from Julian was a motionless figure, their arms crossed, expression inscrutable; the raven-formed Hanged Man, his tall, thin, muscled body crossed over and over with red silk cord, the gauzy shroud of a corpse wrapped around his hips. Next to him was a tall tree, and lounging in the branches, observing the scene with a smirk, was Death, still in Iris’s form, biting curiously at the red nail of her thumb. Iris gasped softly, and both Death and the Hanged Man locked eyes with her in a piercing, synchronized movement. Death raised her eyebrows playfully, her smirk widening; the Hanged Man, to Iris’s shock, winked at her, almost imperceptibly. 

“You’re here at last.” He said, his voice low and gentle, patient. “You kept me waiting quite some time.” He turned to Julian, and Iris realized she didn’t know if he was speaking to him, or to her. 

“...Urgh…?” Julian groaned, lifting his head from his hands, squinting into the red light at the figure of the Hanged Man haloed in front of him; Iris realized, with a rush of clairvoyance, that the realm hid her and Death from him. 

“Your memories of our previous meetings...they’re returning to you now, no?” The Hanged Man arched his eyebrows knowingly as Julian’s brows furrowed in confusion. 

“ _Što...jebote_?” Julian’s sculpted, pale lips twisted into a scowl; his hands trembled in anger in front of him. Slowly, they formed into fists as Julian turned his darkening eye to the Hanged Man. “That...that can’t be. It’s impossible.” 

The Hanged Man laughed once, airlessly. “You’re standing in front of a bird-headed archetype in an Arcane realm, and you’re saying that’s not possible? Not only is it possible, it’s the truth.” 

Julian stared at his fists, scowl widening. “All this time...I thought I’d murdered Lucio. I thought I was coming back to face justice. When Iris and I discovered the truth, my innocence, I knew it wasn’t the whole story. Why? Why did I go to Lucio’s room when Muriel released me? Why didn’t I just run, like I always do?” He ran a hands through his wild hair, his eye widening a little with shock. “I was going to kill him. The only reason I didn’t is that I didn’t get there in time.” 

The Hanged Man smiled widely. “And why did you want to kill Lucio?” 

Iris didn’t think his scowl could get any wider, any more ferocious, but it did, his entire face turning animal. When his answer came, it was from deep in his gut, a low, fearsome growl. “ _ **He**_ was the source of the plague?” 

Iris gasped, her heart nearly stopping, but Death chuckled. “There it is.” She whispered, eyes flitting to Iris. In front of her, the Hanged Man’s lips lifted into the smallest, coyest smirk. 

Julian looked disbelievingly at his trembling, gloved hands. “All those horrific years….all those people dead...Iris dying...it was because of _him_?”

“Lucio’s existence is tied to the plague. Where he goes, it follows.” The Hanged Man explained evenly. “When he settled in Vesuvia, so did it.”

The sound that escaped from Julian now was a broken cry; his hands trembled violently. “I was the one who kept him alive…” 

“What’s done is done.” The Hanged Man said calmly. “You can’t change what’s behind you. You can only control what you do moving forward.” 

Julian cradled his temples between his thumb and two fingers, a soft moan rising from his throat. “You said that same thing that night three years ago. When you told me the cure...” He furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. “The Magician told us that Lucio tried to become one with the Devil. Is that why the plague is returning? Because...the Devil is bringing him back to life?” 

Iris was surprised to see Death’s face twist into a horrific sneer. “He’s doing **_what_**?” For a brief, unguarded moment, her glamour dropped away; her voice no longer sounded like Iris’s, but like a thousand women’s voices, a million women’s voices, young and old, beautiful and ugly, gnarled and sonorous, but just one, terrifying and vibrating with anger. 

If the Hanged Man was surprised by this revelation, he didn’t let on. He shrugged at Julian’s musings. “You’ve gotten what you came for. Now, what are you going to do?” 

Julian bit his lip, his brows furrowed. “I have more questions.” 

The Hanged Man cocked his head at this, but raised his eyebrows expectantly. Julian cleared his throat. 

“Why did our first deal fail?” Julian asked. “What was the bargain?” 

The Hanged Man furrowed his feathered brow now. “You want to know if you traded your memories of Iris for the cure. You did not.” 

The look of shock on Julian’s face made Iris’s heart ache; tears of relief shimmered in the corner of his visible eye. “I didn’t?” His voice was choked, incredulous. 

The Hanged Man chuckled. “You didn’t have those memories to trade, Ilya. In fact, my end of that bargain was to give those memories back. Unfortunately, I couldn’t give them to you.” 

Julian’s brows furrowed. “That doesn’t make any sense. Aren’t you a God, or something? Can’t you just...” He gesticulated widely. “Poof them back?” 

The Hanged Man laughed loudly now. “There are other Arcana, Ilya. Gods, as you call them. Some of them, I would prefer not to cross by stealing from them.” 

Julian’s face twisted with skepticism. “Stealing? What does an Arcana want with my memories?” 

The Hanged Man shrugged again. “What, indeed.” 

Julian worried his gloved thumb, thinking. “Then...our second bargain? Was it for the cure? And the price...is this gift?” He gestured to the mark glowing at his neck. 

The Hanged Man nodded, smirking slightly. “I don’t like leaving my beneficiaries hanging.”

“Did you...just make a joke?” Julian asked, pressing his thumb into his temple. Iris couldn’t help but laugh; Death chortled along with Iris from her vantage point in the mangrove tree. The Hanged Man, however, was stoic; his eyes flashed with something that wasn’t disapproval, but wasn’t far from it.

“You certainly got good use of it, though I must admit, I didn’t think you would use it so carelessly. It is one thing to sacrifice your safety for the safety others; its another entirely to risk your safety to chase pleasure, to try to fill the emptiness you feel. And it is not a sacrifice to act alone when you could act in concert with others. You came here alone to protect Iris and Asra from harm, and yet you’ve harmed them by doing so. They want to help you, Ilya.”

Iris cringed as the color drained from Julian’s face. He stared down at his hands like a scolded child. 

The Hanged Man remained unmoved. “You now know everything I have to tell you. The rest is up to you.” 

There was a pregnant pause for several seconds as Julian looked confused, lost. Then, he cleared his throat uncertainly, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “Soo...how do I get back? To the...to the realm of the living? Earthside?” Julian’s voice rose, a tremor rattling his words. He pointed down, furrowed his eyebrows, then pointed up, finger crooked in a question.

The Hanged Man turned his head and looked at Julian fully now, both dark, glittering eyes boring into him. Even Iris felt a small shiver run through her spine at the intensity of his gaze. “Indecision, introspection, inaction. They can only serve you for so long. You stand between two realms, two paths forward. Only you can decide where you go now. Your gift brought you here, and it can take you back, but after that, it will reach its limit and disappear for good. Or, you can stay here. The cure will reach those who need it.” 

His eye flitted once to Iris, conspiratorially, and he winked at her again before returning his scrutinizing gaze to Julian. “There is much you could learn here. Much you could learn from me.”

Julian let out a barking laugh, the beginnings of his roguish smirk curling on his cheek. “That puts me between the Devil and the deep blue sea, doesn’t it? I go back, the gift disappears...I won’t be able to heal anyone anymore.” His lips sank into a sullen frown, his gaze falling to his gloved hands. “With this, I could take anyone’s pain away, no matter how high the fever, how deadly the poison. I saved Iris with it, and countless others. Without it...I’m just a failed plague doctor. I couldn’t even find the cure on my own. I needed you to show it to me.” 

Iris’s heart twisted as Julian’s lips trembled, and she stretched her hand towards him, uselessly, pathetically, in the dense fog. “Without it…what good am I?” 

The Hanged Man raised an eyebrow, and looked straight at Iris, who was starting to cry, little tears falling up her temples. “Do you have to be good?” He asked quietly. 

Julian smiled, a little wistfully, even as his eyes glittered with helpless tears. “You sound like Iris.” His expression sank again. “If I go back, she’ll hate me. I went against her wishes, broke my promise, and I hurt her. I’ve hurt her before...in ways I can’t even remember. And I’ll hurt her again and again, just like I always do. Pasha, Mazelinka, Asra. Everyone I care for. The story of my life.”

Iris wanted to scream, to beat her fists into his chest, to embrace him and never let him go, but the Hanged Man met her gaze again, shook his head gently. Death’s lips curled into a frown as she rested her chin in her hand. “Come on, Ilya...” She urged him, so quietly that Iris could have sworn it was her imagination. 

Julian’s eyes flitted to the Hanged Man. “If I stay...I’ll be abandoning her again. But if I go back… will I do any better? Or will I just find another crime to hang for, another way to fail her? Oh, Iris...” He ran his hand through his hair, his other hand on his hip, and sighed deeply, sadly. 

The Hanged Man frowned. “You have time to make your decision; I would not deny you the chance to weigh your options, to reflect. The only thing I cannot guarantee you is the safety of your body in the other realm.” 

A smile, a genuine smile, spread across Julian’s lips. “I don’t need more time. I’ve made my decision.” 

The Hanged Man arched an eyebrow. “And?” 

Julian’s eye gleamed, the way it did when he looked at her, when he kissed her, when they were in bed together: warm, full of adoration, love. “She’s all I see in the light. Whether I’m good, or better, or nothing at all...I want to be with her.” 

The Hanged Man laughed loudly, heartily, and Death cheered triumphantly, pumping her first into the air before clapping her hands together in delight. 

The trees around Iris groaned to life, and she swung violently through the air into the clearing; the vines righted her and deposited her onto her feet next to a wide-eyed, slack-mouthed Julian. The sudden rush of blood to her numb limbs made her dizzy, and she stumbled into his arms; he was so stunned by her sudden appearance that he almost didn’t catch her. 

“Iris?!” He exclaimed, his chin quivering, as his hands tightened around her shoulders, as if confirming she was real, not a trick of the light. “You...you followed me here? You...you could have...” 

Iris shushed him, placing one finger over his lips. “Oh, I don’t want to _hear_ it from you.” She met his gaze, her eyes glimmering with happy tears, as he grinned sheepishly. “Julian, darling...” She flung her arms around him. “You chose me… you chose us...” She murmured against his neck; his long, gloved fingers wrapped around her chin, pulling her gaze up to his, and he kissed her.

The Hanged Man’s realm dissolved around them.

*******

Iris sat up with a start, a gasp torn from her throat. She felt discombobulated, like her limbs weren’t her own, both too light and too heavy, doll limbs, and she felt nauseated and dizzy, as if she’d had too much to drink. Her eyes swung around the tiny room she was in, her breathing shallow and panicked; it took a moment for her eyes to adjust in the low light.

It was Julian’s office, her legs wound around in the mangled sheets on top of the narrow cot. She summoned an orb of orange light, but she found herself alone. Her gut twisted – was Julian still in the Hanged Man’s realm? She cast out her magic – no, he was nearby, she could feel his presence, but there was someone else, something sinister, something that sent a ghastly chill through her bloodstream, something familiar, but cloaked, fragmented somehow. With a furrowed brow, Iris stood, and placed her hand on the door to push it open, but it didn’t budge an inch, rattling heavily in its frame. 

Iris’s chest tightened; she crouched very slightly to see through the bars slotted into the small window in the door. The dungeon was dark, aside from the raised theater of the surgery, which was lit with several cobwebbed candleholders; a figure with their back to Iris was in shadow. They were tall, even when hunched over the operating table, and absolutely precise in their movements. Then, they raised their head, a horrible, and two distinctive wimples, like two horrible horns, sliced through the shadows, and a wave of realization nearly drowned Iris. 

It was Quaestor Valdemar, scalpel in hand, their surgeon’s mask pulled down to reveal an obscene smile that stretched all the way across their face, punctuated with rows and rows of pointed, predatory teeth. The body on the table, white shirt ripped open, immaculate dotted lines drawn carefully over a pale torso, for incision, for dissection, was Julian’s. 

Iris reacted before she registered she was moving; she reached back. Something cold and heavy, terrifying, cumbersome in her hands even as she pointed it away from the theater. Clicked back the safety. Said a silent prayer. Pulled the trigger. 

Nothing could have prepared her for the sound, louder than thunder, piercing like a scream in the night, and she barely heard the shattering of glass that followed, the shattering that made the Quaestor twist in shock towards the chaos of splintered glass behind them. 

Though her ears rang and her hands trembled, Iris focused inward, every single speck of of her being that held her together snapping and folding into the ether, before her body reformed on the surgery, the horrible revolver in her hand. Her instincts taking over, she shoved the gun into the holster under the bust of her dress (how the holster had cinched itself to her body, wrapped around her shoulders, sized perfectly, she didn’t know) and clocked Valdemar straight on the jaw with a sharp hook as they turned back towards her. 

Valdemar stumbled back, but seemed to barely register the hit; they blinked their wild red eyes once, and turned to Iris, almost as if unseeing. They opened their horrible mouth, and Iris shivered as their voice reached her ears, shrill, unworldly, bloodcurdling. “Oh...oh my...” 

She saw a tiny movement out of the corner of her eye, on the operating table; Julian convulsed, and coughed weakly, wetly. The Quaestor’s gaze whipped to him, eyes sparking with morbid curiosity, delighted surprise, their thin lips stretching into a grotesque grin. With a guttural howl, Iris focused a heavy stream of magic into her palm and pushed, sending Valdemar flying across the room into the shelves, more glass shattering as they crumpled to the ground. 

Iris tore her eyes from them to Julian, who was gasping on the table, mismatched eyes wide as he sat up slowly, chest heaving. When his eyes fell on Iris, they were full of light; he pulled her into an urgent, desperate embrace, burying his face into her neck. 

“Iris...” His voice was shaky, warbling. “Darling, forgive me...” 

“No time!” Iris shouted, and pulled him off the gurney as Valdemar appeared with a crack, stabbing downward with the scalpel. Iris struggled to hold up Julian, who easily had 5 stone on her, as his legs wobbled, his body still regaining his strength. Valdemar wheeled on them wildly, their sick smile showing all of their pointed teeth. 

“Doctor 069, it seems you have failed to die not once, but twice. It shall be quite the learning experience...cutting you open to see what makes you tick.” Their eyes fell on Iris. “And to dissect the pretty homunculus as well...” Their eyes glimmered menacingly. “...what a rare treat. I could die happy.” 

“Why don’t you just die?” Julian sneered, unsheathing the knife at his hip as he stood, regaining the use of his legs; he stepped half in front of Iris, protectively, but she sidestepped him, magic arcing at her fingertips as she prepped for another powerful blast, so they were both squared off against Valdemar. 

Valdemar grinned wildly and lunged, scalpel first; Julian parried with his knife, knocking the scalpel out of the Quaestor’s hand, but they gripped another on the table behind them and swung it wildly forward, nicking Julian’s cheek deeply. Iris aimed carefully and knocked Valdemar back with her magic, staggering them, and Julian didn’t hesitate; he surged forward and plunged his knife into Valdemar’s shoulder, to the hilt. 

Iris gasped as Valdemar keened, but no blood surged from their body; Iris swore she saw dark, phantasmagoric miasma spurt from their wound that dissipated like smoke in the air. With a fiery look in their eyes, a pained sneer on their face, they disappeared into the ether with a crack. 

Iris realized she was panting, her chest heaving, as adrenaline coursed through her veins; her hands shook as they fell on Julian’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” She whispered, eyeing the wound on Julian’s cheek, now bleeding steadily. 

“I’ll live.” Julian said with a smirk, turning to Iris, mismatched eyes flashing raffishly. “Scars are dashing, right? Too bad it’s on my good side.” 

Iris chuckled, and lifted her hand to the wound, healing it with soft pulses of golden light. “Not that you wouldn’t look handsome with a scar...” 

Julian snorted, and Iris startled a little when he snaked his arms around her hips and pulled her close. “Was that really you I saw in the Hanged Man’s realm? Not a dream…?” He murmured, his lips in her hair. 

Iris wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her nose into his exposed chest, the thick, wiry hair that smelled so strongly, so beautifully of him. “It wasn’t a dream. I saw it all, Julian. Your cure...your bargain...your mark...” She reached up to touch his neck gently with the tips of her fingers. “I’m just glad you’re alive...you’re _alive_...” 

Her heart stopped as the memory of his hanging body, forever seared into her brain, came back to her unbidden. She grimaced and clung to him, balling both of her hands into fists at the small of his back, her shoulders and arms shaking. She pressed her cheek against his thumping heart and sobbed.

Julian bit his lip, pulled her closer. “I’m sorry...if I, er...if I worried you...” 

“If?” She reared back, lips pulled into a snarl; she knew she must look demonic, tears streaming down her face, grateful, adoring eyes, ferocious sneer, skin flushed from battle. “Don’t you _**dare**_ pull something stupid like that again.” She growled. “Or I’ll bring you back again, just to kill you myself.” 

Julian lifted Iris’s chin to his. “Can the lecture wait?” He murmured, before pressing a soft kiss onto her mouth. She laughed warmly against his lips and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer to her as she craned her neck up to kiss him harder. 

His legs, still unsteady, buckled under him when Iris unbalanced him; they fell back together onto the examination table, Iris sprawled out over Julian’s heaving chest, their knees and thighs knocking against each others, their arms tangling. Julian barked laughing, and, wrapping his arms around Iris, pulled her face up to his, planting kiss after kiss after kiss on her lips, her face. 

The tender sounds he made in the back of his throat were equal parts devotion and desire; his hands fell on every part of Iris’s body that was available to him, the slope of her back, the crest of her hips, the nape of her neck, the sweet fullness of her arms and shoulders. Iris responded in kind, her hands falling into his hair, gripping his chin, his neck, his shoulders. She moaned when he groped the swell of her ass hard, and he pinked, biting his lip, at the sound. 

Iris never wanted him to stop, but she pulled away from his kisses, dizzy and breathless, to whisper, “Are you sure you want to do this here?” 

Julian chuckled, eyes twinkling. “I would do it anywhere with you, darling...but you’re right. Contagious plagues, diseased beetles, haunting memories, the like.” 

They dusted themselves off and rushed through the prep room, the earthen hallway, the unnerving elevator; Iris clung to Julian’s hand as if he would disappear into the ether if she ever let go of him, and Julian seemed to feel the same way, thumb worrying over the knuckles of her hand incessantly, absentmindedly. 

When they entered the library through the secret door, there was something of a commotion. A dart of ginger hair, orange flannel, streaked towards them like a bolt of lightning, wrapping both of them into a bone-breaking hug; it was Portia, shaking with laughter, with tears. She knocked Julian upside the head with her open palm while simultaneously planting relieved kisses on his cheeks, cursing a blue streak at him in Nivenese, Julian answering her with low, mortified responses. Iris could see Muriel and Nadia both hovering on the periphery, Nadia wringing her hands nervously, her long, uncombed, unwashed hair hanging lankly around her shoulders; beside her, Muriel looked, as ever, embarrassed to even be there. 

Iris felt strong, warm hands on her cheeks, drawing her attention away from the reuniting siblings next to her, as Asra kissed her deeply. Iris could practically taste the relief on his lips as they lingered over hers, his shaking hands grasping her shoulders before wrapping around her, pulling her close, pressing his cheek against hers. “I knew you could do it, Iris.” He murmured quietly. Iris could feel his heart pounding in his chest...in her chest. 

Iris hummed, running her hand up his spine to his feather-soft hair, eliciting a soft shudder of happiness from him. “Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for holding us down earthside.” She whispered to him, planting kisses on his jaw, his cheek. A little reluctantly, she pulled away; she realized that her hand was still intertwined with Julian’s, even as she ran her fingers through Asra’s curls. “What happened? We woke up in the dungeons...” 

Asra sighed heavily; she saw now the dark, deep bruises blooming on his temple, his jaw. “Valdemar… they hijacked it. I was able to protect the others, but they knocked me out and stole your bodies.” 

Iris furrowed her brows. “They were able to carry both of us?” Iris did the quick math in her head...they must have weighed a little shy of 25 stone combined; it would have been difficult for someone even Muriel’s size to carry both of them that distance, let alone a scrap like Valdemar.

“I didn’t see.” Asra said quietly. Iris reached up to his temple and healed his bumps and bruises; he must have been so exhausted that he didn’t have the energy to heal himself. Once satisfied with her work, she let her hand fall gently onto his cheek. 

She felt Julian’s hand squeeze hers, his gaze turning to them after his and Portia’s chatter died down. Asra, without hesitation, turned to Julian, and, pulling away gently from Iris’s touch, kissed him tenderly on the lips, his ringed, amber fingers lingering on Julian’s even after he pulled away. 

“I’m glad you’re okay.” He murmured. “But that was extremely foolhardy.” 

Julian wiggled his eyebrows sheepishly. “I’m nothing if not consistent, hm?” 

Asra sighed, and his eyes narrowed a little as he thumbed Julian’s bottom lip roughly. “Whatever will we do with you, Ilya?” 

The color rose quickly onto Julian’s cheeks as he looked down, either with embarrassment or with a sudden rush of desire, but a soft, sonorant sound cut through their reunion as Nadia cleared her throat. “I believe, Ilya, you went to the Hanged Man’s realm for the cure to the Red Plague?” Her eyes glittered with purpose. “Did you find what you were seeking?” 

Iris and Julian’s eyes met; she nodded encouragingly, before biting her lip. Julian cleared his throat. 

“The...the Red Plague is connected to Lucio’s existence. Where he goes...the plague follows.” He said firmly. “It sounds ludicrous, but it’s true. The evidence supports it. For the last three years, there hasn’t been an incident of the plague reported in Vesuvia or anywhere else. It stopped after Lucio was believed to be killed. But Lucio’s presence is growing stronger in the palace, and the red beetles have started appearing.” Julian paused, gloved fingers resting on his chin in thought. “Nadia, Asra, Iris...you saw it yourself a few days ago. If he grows much stronger...if he regains a physical body...the plague will come with him.” 

Nadia blinked back her surprise. “That is...quite a theory.”

“It’s not a theory.” Iris cut in. “It’s the truth. The Hanged Man himself told Julian. I was there, too.” Her eyes flitted to Asra’s, and he nodded very slightly. “The Arcana can’t lie. If it came from the Hanged Man’s mouth, it’s correct.” 

Nadia sighed. “Then that is good enough evidence for me. So, how do we stop Lucio from returning?” 

Iris pressed her lips together. “I don’t know. I...” She turned to Asra. “I’ve never seen anything like this. I’ve never _heard_ of anything like this. It must be ancient magic, from before the first magician.” 

Asra shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like this either. Iris and I will have to do extensive research to find a way to prevent this.” 

Nadia’s brow worried, and Portia looked sidelong at the Countess, her lips pursed. It was Muriel who spoke. 

“It’s been a long night, and everyone is exhausted.” He paused, blushing at all the eyes on him. “We should sleep, and we can…reconvene in the morning.”

“An excellent idea.” Nadia said quietly. Dawn was just starting to streak through the stained-glass window. “We are all safe and sound now...this can be solved when everyone is rested.” She looked uncertain, even as she said it. Suddenly, she rushed forward, and flung her arms around both Julian and Iris, squeezing them both close. Julian stiffened, surprised, but Iris wrapped her arm around her friend, rubbing her back gently as she laid her head on her shoulder. 

As suddenly as she broke decorum, Nadia stepped back, and cleared her throat. “If you’d all join me for breakfast tomorrow, I’d be most grateful. Portia...” she turned and strode towards the door, and Portia snapped to attention at her side. “Consider yourself off for the day. I’ll see to it that the kitchens are informed that we’ll be having a late breakfast...oh, or a brunch? How do you feel about brunch?” Their conversation faded as they rounded through the wide doors. 

Without another word, not even so much as a flash of the eye, Muriel turned and shuffled out of the library. It was just the three lovers now. 

For a few moments, they were silent; Iris shifted uncomfortably at the palpable awkwardness that hung between them, and Julian’s blush deepened. His hand found Iris’s waist and pulled her closer to him, sidelong, almost an act of self-soothing. 

“I...uh, that is...erm...” He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. I acted rashly, and against your wishes, Iris. And Asra...I put you in danger, I put Iris in danger. I thought I could protect you, but...” 

Iris pressed her cheek into his shoulder. “I’m just happy you’re okay, Julian. That everyone is okay.” 

“And we got the cure.” Asra said quietly. “It wasn’t for nothing.” 

“...though...” Julian’s long fingers traced his neck, where his mark used to lay. “The Hanged Man took the gift away. As punishment, I suppose.” Iris wrapped her arm around his back, her hand on his shoulder; she squeezed lightly. 

“He took the gift away because you don’t need it anymore.” She said quietly. “You have people who look out for you. Look at everyone who came to your aid tonight.” She turned to Asra, held her hand out to him; he took it, squeezed gently. “You have to listen to the Hanged Man, darling. Let go. Let others help you.”

Julian pressed his lips into Iris’s hair, and said nothing, but she could feel his lips tremble slightly. 

Asra cleared his throat. “Muriel’s right. I think we could all use some sleep.” He looked exhausted; Iris remembered, with something like amusement, how drunk he had been when they had put him to bed, just hours before. She nodded, bringing his knuckles up to her lips, kissing gently. 

“You’re right, my heart. Let’s go.”

Minutes later, they were in Iris’s room; Julian didn’t resist this time as Iris peeled the sliced-up shirt off his shoulders, helped him out of his trousers, as Asra lovingly undid the buttons of her dress. She turned to Asra as Julian collapsed into the bed, careful not to disturb Vasalisa and Faust, asleep in a puddle at the foot of the bed. Asra started only a little when he pushed her dress off of her body to discover the revolver strapped to her chest; this, he carefully, adroitly, unwound from her shoulders and placed delicately on the desk. 

Iris lifted the low-slung shirt off of Asra’s chest, leaving small, soft kisses against his drooping eyes as the pants slipped from his hips. Julian lifted the covers back as they dropped into the bed, Iris settling in the crook of Julian’s arm, Asra on his other side; Iris laid her hand over Julian’s heart, the soft hair and skin there, and Asra laid his hand over hers. Julian buried his hand in Iris’s hair, his fingers gently massaging her scalp; a soft, satisfied groan crossed his lips as Asra settled his forehead against Julian’s neck. 

Together, they all dropped into slumber, just as the sun rose through the tall windows of their room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: And all was well. *narrator's voice* it was not all, in fact, well. 
> 
> See you in the Death sequence, my friends.


	7. Death, Part 1: Been Waiting and Waiting For You To Make Your Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Lykke Li - I Never Learn // James Blake - Retrograde**
> 
> _CW: Panic attacks, gun use, drug use, excessive drinking, unsafe sex, allusions to noncon/drunk sex, reckless and suicidal behavior_
> 
> _If you are having thoughts of suicide, please talk to a mental health professional, call 1-800-273-8255 (if you’re in the US) or text 741741 (US), 686868 (Canada), or 85258 (UK).[Click here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines) for a more comprehensive list of suicide crisis lines around the world._

There were the swaying grasses, the buds of lilies just peeking their fragrant noses out of their cocoons, the sky white with their scent. There was the indigo-blue sea, a well of ink; there was the sky, cloudless, starless, only the moon, nearly full, mockingly white. There was the mirror, broken, Iris’s red eyes and sunken skin fractured in the reflection. Anger needled her under her skin, her blood icy and star-bright; with a growl, an animal snarl, she lunged, only for her wrist to be caught by a gentle hand, nails red as blood, skin so, so inhumanly warm. 

“Iris, child, are you sure?”

*******

It was nearly noon when Iris woke again; someone had pulled the heavy curtains of the guest room closed, dipping it into soft, dusky darkness. She knew she wasn’t alone in the bed before she even opened her eyes; her arm was wrapped around someone’s dense trunk, her cheek was pressed into warm skin, firm muscle, smelling of oranges, cinnamon, smoke. Asra.

She fluttered her eyelids open; they were spooning, with her as the big spoon, her hand on his waist, her cheek pressed into the plane of his shoulder, their calves and ankles tangled. For a moment, Iris felt peaceful, well-rested, calm. Blank, beautiful, expansive. Then, she craned her neck over her shoulder, expecting to see Julian, sprawled out in the swath of bed behind her, but it was empty. 

Iris jolted upright, her breath spinning up out of her in panicked gasps, her heart and lungs aching, burning, exploding, as the events of the previous night flashed through her head – her feverish dreams, the painful memories in the dungeons, the Hanged Man’s realm, the fight against Valdemar, Julian’s...Julian’s body –

Warm hands wrapped around her shoulders, and a silky voice crooned in her ear. “Iris, Iris...he’s in the bath...I just spoke to him...” When her breath wouldn’t return, as she started hyperventilating, he breathed with her, wrapping his arms around her waist, her arms, laying his chin on her shoulder as they breathed in for seven counts, out for seven counts, together. 

Finally, finally, Iris’s heart rate slowed, her lungs working almost normally, and Asra guided her back into the sheets, onto her stomach; he laid a warm hand between her shoulderblades and rubbed gentle circles on her back, propping himself up on his other elbow. 

“It’s okay...you’re okay...” He cooed softly. He had eased Iris through many of these attacks in the past, when she couldn’t sleep, when she had her terrible nightmares, when she became overwhelmed with the everything of everything. “After the last few days...it’s no wonder your nerves are frayed. You need to rest.” 

Iris turned her head to him, swimming her arms up to rest her cheek in the cradle of her forearms and the down pillow. “I did rest. We have so much to do, still.” 

Asra sighed heavily. “You’ve been going nonstop for over a week, Iris. Rest today. Especially after all you went through yesterday. Last night. That’s why you keep passing out.” He paused for a moment. “It doesn’t help that you’re hardly eating.” 

Iris groaned, rolled her eyes. “I get stuffed like a suckling pig every time I sit down at that dining room table. Missing a lunch here and there won’t kill me.” 

He leaned into her, pressing his forehead against hers, nuzzling gently. “Don’t make me worry about you, too, Iris.” 

Her heart clenched as she met his gaze; it was pained, his violet eyes vibrating with sadness, with concern. She bit her lip and, with a frustrated sigh, let her head fall back into the pillow. 

“How can you rest when there’s so much to do? So much at stake...” She whispered. “I can’t relax… knowing that Julian still doesn’t have his memories...knowing Lucio is coming back… knowing the _plague_ is coming back...” 

Asra shushed her, just as Iris felt her heart start racing again; his hand on her back sank a little lower to her waist, his soothing touch melting into something more liquid. “Let me help you relax, Iris.” He murmured into her ear, his breath hot and needful against her skin, before trailing his lips across her cheek to her mouth, kissing her passionately. 

With a knowing hum, Iris rolled onto her side and wound her arms around Asra’s naked waist, and he drew her a little closer into their kiss, his hand trailing lower and lower down her back. “We’ve hardly had a moment to ourselves...” He breathed against her lips as he gently traced the dimples on her lower back before sliding his hand onto the swell of her ass. “I haven’t even had a chance to thank you...” 

Iris raised an eyebrow now. “Thank me for what?” She asked coyly, letting her fingernails catch on the gorgeous sinew of his back as she ran her hands up and over his body. 

Asra grinned wickedly. “For wearing white yesterday.” Suddenly, he rolled Iris over onto her back and mounted her, straddling her hips, pinning her wrists to the pillow on either side of her head. Iris thought her heart would beat right out of her chest; her sex was now simmering with heat. The sight of his strong, naked, honey-dipped body looming over her, holding her down, his pupils blown wide, an impish smirk pulling at the corners of his delectable lips – Iris wanted to swoon. 

“Oh, Iris...” He whispered, moving his hands away from her wrists, palming down her arms, her shoulders, her chest, her waist. Iris tried to touch him back, but her hands were locked in place, bound by his magic. “You looked like a goddess, Iris...I wanted to worship you...” He leaned into her, licking the graceful length of Iris’s neck before nipping at the sensitive skin there. Iris crooned; she knew she was in for an exquisite treat.

Still, she whined and resisted a little, straining against her pinned wrists. “I want to touch you too, Asra...” She whimpered, choked off with a shuddering gasp as Asra gently dragged his teeth down her chest, stopping just short of her hardening nipples. 

“Let the pilgrim worship at the altar of the goddess.” He said, voice feverish, before dropping a hot tongue onto the swell of her breast, circling the skin around the nipple teasingly, his pace maddeningly lazy. Iris moaned as more heat and slickness pooled between her legs, and she tried to guide him with shifts, rolls of her ribs, her waist. He just chuckled, his laughter warm against her skin, as he moved to the space between her breasts, tonguing a long line down to her navel, leaving her neglected buds aching and wanting. 

“Don’t tease me...” She pleaded, her voice pitiful; Asra’s response was to – Iris gasped – run three fingers through the glossy space between her legs.

“But it gets you so wet...” He murmured, nipping playfully at the delicate skin on her belly as Iris started panting; he parted her labia with his mother and sister fingers and petted the sweet, velvety skin of her sex, the length of his brother finger rubbing deliciously against her clitoris, the tip just breaching her, dipping into her, pulling with it more slickness. 

“Asra...” She moaned as her toes curled, as the heat in her belly hardened into dangerous, explosive desire. His lips alternated between nipping and sucking gently on her stomach, slowly moving lower and lower and lower, until he reached the manicured down on her mound. The desperate little moans she made were heavenly as he stroked her, and he savored each and every sound as his heart skipped and his breath grew shallower, coming in whispered pants against her tender skin. 

Iris bucked her hips just a little, so his mouth brushed against her pubis, wordlessly begging him to use his lips, his tongue, but he only smiled against the skin before laying a lingering kiss there. “Be patient, my heart.” He murmured, the quiet vibrations resonating through her mound. “I’ll get there...” 

On the next pass of his finger, he slowed, making Iris groan, before gently pressing the pad of his finger around her cunt, circling slowly and easily. When he finally, finally, slipped his finger inside her to the knuckle, Iris moaned again, arching her back against the silk sheets, pressing her pelvis into his hand. 

Asra chuckled. “So eager...” He moved so painstakingly slow inside of her, thrusting gently with his wrist, that Iris thought she would go mad; even as he curled his finger against her sweet spot, slipped another in, as he bit, sucked, kissed, licked, the insides of her shaking thighs, even as Iris cried out in frustration and gyrated her hips against him, searching mindlessly for something to slake her need, he didn’t increase his pace. 

It was only when she panted, “Asra, please...please...” that he purred with satisfaction and laved his hot tongue over her clitoris before latching on, sucking with just enough pressure to make sparks swim across Iris’s eyes. They had been lovers for so long that he knew her every preference, and this… she bit her lip hard to keep herself from crying out too loudly, to let everyone in the palace know what they were doing, as her body fairly pulsed with pleasure. 

He increased the cadence of his lips and his hand ever so slightly, warm fingertips expertly massaging the precious bundle of nerves nestled inside her, moaning with bliss as Iris worked her hips against him, struggling against her restraints, dying to run her fingers through his haloed hair, to grab, to pull. But she could do nothing as the little geyser in her surged up hotly, as she cried out brokenly and came, as she sank back into the bed as the wash of pleasure receded, leaving her feeling euphoric, weightless, and spent. 

With an adoring gleam in his eye, Asra slowed his motions, carefully removing his fingers so as to not overstimulate Iris, and kissed her sex all over as she returned earthside, his lips slick and coated with her desire. When her breathing leveled and her wild sounds subsided, he gently grasped both of her bountiful hips and, with a breathy little growl, rolled them over so Iris was laying with her shoulders flat on the bed but her hips stacked. There was a flash of searing purple light, and Asra hooked one hand under the knee of her top leg, wrapping it across and around his hips as he straddled her bottom leg, extended underneath him. 

Iris trembled, her hands still bound, as he took his hard cock in his hand and pressed the tip against her sex. “My heart...are you ready…?” 

She nodded her head, biting her lip; she was quivering in anticipation. Even though Asra was gentle as he first pressed into her, Iris hissed and arched her back at the tight position. She cried out loudly as he started thrusting in earnest, slowly at first, but it wasn’t long before he was pumping wildly, one hand grasping hard under her knee, the other groping her full ass as he moaned quietly, drinking in the sight of her underneath him, her breasts bouncing, the smooth pool of her belly, the delightful little rolls at the cinch of her waist that flexed as she braced herself against him, the way all her softness rippled with each buck of his hips. 

Iris could hardly form a rational thought with Asra like this inside her, the contorted position hot and tight and rubbing her in all the right ways. There was no way she could stifle the sounds that crossed her lips now, the panting groans, the choked-off cries, the almost-incoherent litany of cursewords and encouragement: “Fuck, oh fuck, Asra, keep – keep doing that, ah, _Asra_ , oh–” 

Asra groaned at the sound of his name falling so wantonly from his partner’s lips, quiet fire spreading through his trunk; he rewarded Iris with another firm grope of her ass before slapping the swell of flesh, the crack echoing loudly through the room. 

“ _Oh_ , yes, Asra…” Iris grunted. “More….” 

With a deep, hot-blooded growl, Asra spanked her again, harder this time, redness now rising to her smooth, milky skin, and Iris practically shouted his name. 

She felt so full, so gloriously full, in this position, that she whimpered when Asra pulled out of her and grabbed the ankle of her crossed leg in his opposite hand, opening it outward and guiding the other leg out from under him. He slipped back into her and grabbed the other ankle so her legs were in the air in a V. Iris’s eyes nearly crossed as he thrusted harder and deeper into her; she was so entrenched in her own ecstasy that she hardly noticed when Asra let the magic holding her back fall away. It was only when he muttered to her through gasping breaths did she even try to move her hands. 

“Touch yourself, Iris, please...” 

Iris cried out and her hand flew down to her clitoris; she was so close to her second orgasm that less than a minute’s worth of rubbing had her coming, rocking her hips against Asra’s as she called his name over and over again, her eyes clenched shut in bliss as oblivion swam across the back of her eyelids, kissing her back into existence. 

Above her, Asra was moaning, shaking, pulling himself out of Iris to pump himself to his release; Iris reached forward and grabbed him even as she trembled with orgasm, touching him just the way he loved, and he let out a final, tremulous, delicious groan as he came onto the silky skin of Iris’s stomach. 

Asra locked gazes with Iris as he finished, his eyes dark and cloudy with quenched desire, his sweet, full mouth parted and panting, a gentle sheen of sweat clinging to his temples, his neck, his clavicle. Iris knew she looked no better, her hair mussed, her chest heaving from her full-body orgasm, covered in his cum. Slowly, she dragged a finger through the valley of her belly, the swells of her breasts, fingers coming away sticky and pearly; without breaking eye contact, she lifted the finger to her mouth and sucked, tasting him with a small, satisfied hum. He groaned and shuddered visibly, grasping her thighs tighter as little more color rose to his cheeks. 

Iris let him enjoy his high for a few more moments before cleaning herself with her magic; she opened her arms to him, and he happily crawled to her, nuzzling his face into her cheek, wrapping an arm around her waist, their legs tangled. Iris could feel his heart pounding in his chest as she drank in his warmth, the scent of his hair, his skin after sex. 

“Are you feeling more relaxed, my heart?” Asra murmured against her skin after a few minutes of cuddling, and Iris laughed. 

“It certainly helped...” She kissed his forehead, letting her lips linger in his hair. “I still don’t like the idea of doing nothing today.” 

“Have you even had a chance to explore the palace?” Asra asked quietly, his eyelashes fluttering against her neck. “Have you seen the greenhouses, the menagerie, the galleries?” 

Iris considered this. “No...it’s just been what I’ve needed for the investigation. I would like the see the greenhouses, at least...I recovered a memory from one of them.” She shook her head. “But there’s no time, Asra...” 

He trailed soft little kisses up her neck to her jaw, lips lingering over her chin. “What about a bath, then? When was the last time you had good, long soak?” 

Again, Iris paused, chewing on the corner of her lip. She had bathed yesterday, aided by Ami and Primula, but it was hardly relaxing; they scoured her stem to stern again before helping Navra and Portia prep her for the trial. 

Asra didn’t even wait for her answer; with an impish smile, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he scooped her out of the bed and stood with her in his arms, bridal style – Iris didn’t even have a moment to protest before the bedroom door flew open on its tracks and Asra bolted out, both of them stark naked. 

“Asra!” Iris shouted, a grin rippling across her face as she laughed wildly. Mercifully, there was no one in the hallway, but both of them cackled as Asra spirited them down to the baths, through the quartz archway and, with a graceful turn on his heel, fell backwards into the large soaking tub, nearly the size of a small swimming pool, bringing Iris with him as they were submerged in warm, fragrant bathwater. 

Iris shrieked and flailed, and Asra finally loosed his grip on her, letting her get her bearings as she flung her head back, gasping, pushing her soaked hair sleek around her temples, her neck. Asra watched her through lidded eyes, everything from his nose down still underwater. 

“Oh, Asra, I’ll get you for that!” She cried, splashing him; he grinned as he rose a little from the water, sweet rivulets of water running down the valley of his chest, his shoulders, his arms as he wrapped his arms around Iris’s waist and pressed kisses into her abdomen. 

It was in this moment that Iris realized they weren’t alone in the bath; a pair of pale calves dipped back in across from them, and Iris traced the line of them up to a lithe, muscular body, leaning on the elbow that was resting on one knee, chin nestled in long, graceful fingers – Julian, wrapped in a gauzy black bathing robe that left nothing to the imagination. 

“I see you’re awake...” He smirked; he wasn’t wearing his eye patch, both his healthy and red eye glittering with mischief. “I thought for sure you’d sleep a while longer.” 

Asra gently guided Iris into the low bench of the soaking tub, settling in next to her, his arm thrown around her shoulder, their hips and thighs touching; he laid his drenched, tangled curls on her shoulder. Iris held a hand out to Julian, beckoning him back into the tub; he obliged, sinking slowly back into the water that licked deliciously against the gauze of his robe, the cut lines of his hips. He sank gracefully onto the bench at Iris’s other side, his knees pointed towards her, his fingertips tracing gently against the swell of her shoulder; Iris let one of her hands fall onto his bare thigh. 

She turned her gaze to Julian’s, meeting both of his mismatched eyes. “Asra wants me to rest today.” She said quietly; she felt Asra’s heavy-lidded eyes fall on her as he shifted a little bit at her side, turning towards the two of them. “But there’s so much left to be done...” 

Julian’s eyes softened. “A day of rest wouldn’t hurt. Pasha told me you keep passing out.” 

Iris rolled her eyes. “Not you, too...” 

Julian made a small noise of disapproving concern, something between a hum and a sigh. “Fainting nearly four times in a week, Iris...you’re clearly exhausted.” His gray eyes locked with the magician’s. “I agree with Asra.” 

Iris moaned with frustration and rolled her next back so she was laying her head on the edge of the bath. “I’m not a delicate flower...” She murmured. “I don’t need to be coddled...” 

It was Asra who spoke next. “There’s nothing wrong with taking a day to rest, Iris.” He rose from her shoulder, meeting her gaze. “No one would fault you for slowing down for just one day.” 

Julian leaned into her, nudging his lips against her cheek. “Rest, darling. You’ve earned it.” 

Iris shook a little. “How can I rest when you still don’t have your memories?” She whispered. “How can I rest when Lucio is coming back?” 

Asra shushed her. “You don’t need to worry about that right now. Ilya and I can work on it today. It will still be here for you to solve tomorrow.” His palms massaged her shoulders, and Julian’s hand shifted down to her thigh, rubbing softly. 

Iris shifted with a sigh, laying one shoulder against Julian’s chest, drawing her feet up onto the bench and into Asra’s lap. Julian wrapped his hands around Iris’s waist, pulling her closer; Asra traced his thumbs over Iris’s arches, gently massaging her aching feet, making her hum a little with pleasure. 

Iris was finally, finally, able to relax fully, her forehead pressed into Julian’s neck, breathing in the deep fragrance of him, the fresh bathing oils on his skin and the underlying musky, salty rum scent, Asra massaging her arches, the ball of her foot. At some point, she shifted in Julian’s arms so her back was pressed into his chest; his hands glided up to her shoulders, rubbing gently as he whispered sweet little nothings to her, slipping in a few luscious Nivenese words, making her croon with happiness. 

She felt a dampcloth on her calves, her thighs; Asra was washing her with the lightest, gentlest touch, sending little shivers up her spine as the cloth tickled the sensitive skin of her belly, under her breasts. Asra’s eyes were heavy-lidded as he reached for the bottles that lined the side of the tub, coming back with a clarifier and conditioning oil; Iris raised her head off of Julian’s chest and Asra massaged the clarifier carefully into her scalp in slow, circular motions. Julian cupped water between his long fingers and brought it up to Iris’s head, gently rinsing so Asra could rub the conditioning oils into her short hair. 

Iris must have dozed off, because when she came to, she was in Asra’s arms, her cheek pressed against his chest, her hand over his heart, his hands on her back, his breath so steady, so rhythmic, so comforting. His head was thrown back, neck and chin long; Iris realized that he was resting his head against Julian’s thigh, the larger man having climbed out of the bath, probably to prevent pruning. They were speaking quietly to each other, so quietly that even as close as she was, she could hardly hear their conversation. It was only when she heard the word _Arcana_ that her ears perked up.

“...But why would an Arcana keep a mortal’s memories? To what end?” Julian inquired softly. Iris felt Asra’s shoulders tense slightly, his heart racing up a little. 

“...It’s hard to say.” He replied, his voice low, steady. “They would have different reasons, depending on the Arcana. For some, it could just be for the sake of chaos. Others, it could be as part of a plan put in place before even the first magician.” 

Iris could practically hear Julian’s brow furrow; she shifted very slightly so she could look at him, a long hand over his mouth, eyebrows cinched in thought, eyes shifting under dark lashes. She gripped Asra’s chest a little tighter, signaling to him that she was awake; he, in turn, pressed a little against her back, pulling her closer into his embrace. 

She said nothing, even though the words burned in her throat and her stomach ached, like she’d eaten too-hot food. When Asra had told Iris that he had hid Julian’s memories away, she had no idea that it was in the Magician’s realm – she couldn’t think of any other Arcana that Asra would entrust something so precious to. She wanted to say something, to ease the turmoil she could see on Julian’s face, but she knew it had to be Asra. 

“Is there any way to ask the Arcana? To contact them?” Julian pressed; Iris could hear the fine edge of urgency in his voice, the little tinge of desperation. 

“Ilya...” Asra breathed, paused. For a moment, a hopeful moment, Iris thought the truth would come out. Then: “...you died to reach an Arcana you have an affinity to, and you just barely made it back to us. Arcane realms aren’t just doors you can knock on. It’s difficult even for magicians to reach them without a special connection.” 

Iris chewed on the inner corner of her lip, lifting her head now to gaze at Asra, imploringly. He pointedly ignored her. “There is a way to contact the Arcana, though: the cards. Iris or I can give you a reading. They might point you in the right direction.” 

Julian sighed heavily; Iris could tell he was annoyed. His weight shifted and he pressed an absentminded kiss into the top of Iris’s head before standing. “Maybe...perhaps later...” He mumbled, running his hand through his hair, lips pursed into a moue of frustration as he gathered the gossamer robe around his shoulders. 

They were interrupted by a soft knock on the door; Portia peeked her head in with her eyes closed, though Iris was quick to notice that she wasn’t wearing her palace uniform, rather a simple dress in a pale lilac color. “I was hoping I’d find you three...brunch will be served soon. It would be lovely if you could join us.” 

“Portia, I thought you weren’t working today?” Iris called to the redhead softly, making Julian jump a little. 

Portia laughed. “I’m technically not, but a woman’s work is never done, no?” She giggled. “I just wanted to make sure you guys didn’t miss a meal, especially you, Iris. You have a tendency to work through your lunch, as it were.” 

Iris rolled her eyes in annoyance as Portia, peeking through slitted eyes, placed a stack of hot, fluffy towels by the door. “The first course will be served in 15 or so minutes. I’ve also seen to it that you all have fresh clothing.” 

“And hopefully that’s the last of your work today, Pasha.” Julian said softly, grabbing one of the towels. “Nadi puts you through your paces. You deserve a day of rest, too.” 

Pasha scoffed, letting her eyes open fully, slate blue meeting gray in a gaze that was half-teasing, half-admonishing. “You think mama ever had a moment’s rest, raising you? I’d choose running a palace over your antics any day, _especially_ after the bullshit you pulled last night...” 

Julian chuckled and let the robe fall from his shoulders and onto the floor, making Portia reel and redden as he toweled off. “I wasn’t the only hellraiser in that house. I seem to remember a little girl who always kicked her clothes and nappies off and ran around the house, naked as the day she was born...” 

Portia tsked in exasperation as Julian wrapped the towel around his hips. “Ugh, pot meet kettle...” Iris giggled as the siblings’ bickering receded from the bathroom and into the hallway, now punctuated with guttural Nivenese phrases that Iris had an inkling might be cursewords and insults, volleyed in jest. 

Asra gripped Iris’s shoulders tightly. “We should get ready too, Iris.” He whispered sweetly to her. He made to shift out of the bath, but Iris pressed firmly into his chest, holding him in place for a moment with her magic, a warning. 

“You should have told him.” She said quietly. 

Asra sighed, and she could practically feel him growing chillier, receding from her. “It wasn’t the right time.” 

“No time is ever going to be perfect, Asra.” Iris’s voice was firm. “The longer you wait, the more its going to hurt him. He might try something desperate again.”

Asra didn’t meet Iris’s gaze, like a child scolded. “I know.” 

“Tonight.” Iris pleaded. “Please. We don’t have to return the memories, but if at least knows where they are...that we’re working on it...” 

“...it’ll be of some comfort to him.” Asra finished her thought. “You’re right…you’re right.” 

Iris swallowed. “Does that give you enough time to prepare?” She knew it wouldn’t be easy for him, even if he had days, ages, to prepare. He nodded gently, eyes closed. “Is there anything I can do to help?” 

Asra laughed, his violet eyes flying open, sparkling. “Nice try, but no. You’re resting today, remember?” 

Iris rolled her eyes, releasing the magic that pinned Asra in place. “You caught me.” 

He planted a kiss on her forehead. “Let’s get dressed, heart. I’m starving.” 

Iris raised her eyebrows. “But you just ate?” She said, a wicked smirk sneaking across her face. 

Asra smacked her ass playfully as he helped her out of the bath.

*******

Despite the events of the last night, brunch was a rather joyous affair. The six of them weren’t able to talk much about what had transpired, because the other princesses had gotten word and descended, bringing with them their delightful chaos.

Nazali was decidedly hungover, having outpaced even Asra in the revelry of last night (was it really only last night that they had all celebrated?); they arrived to brunch dressed only in a red silk robe that only just covered their chest, and nursed a cup of coffee spiked with Eilish rye while they peppered Julian with questions about his recent research, patients, and life updates. Iris was surprised to learn that Nahara and Portia knew each other, having traveled together on the same vessel to Vesuvia – a pirate vessel captained by none other than Mazelinka on her final voyage before settling down in her old age. 

And it was between bites of a delicious, buttery pastry that Nadia called a waffle (which gave bread and pasta a run for their money as Iris’s favorite food) that Asra gently nudged Iris’s elbow and subtly pointed under the table, his eyes dancing. Across from them, Nasmira was spooning a bite of a forest mushroom, leek, and egg tart into Muriel’s mouth while he blushed furiously; Iris averted her eyes when Muriel’s gaze darted to them, looking both extremely pleased and like he wanted the Devil’s realm to open up under him and swallow him whole. 

Though Iris fully intended to heed Asra and Julian’s wishes to rest that day, she couldn’t ignore it when Nadia requested an audience with the three of them after brunch. Iris was not surprised to find Muriel milling about as they entered Nadia’s private receiving room, or to see Portia sitting next at Nadia’s right, but she was shocked to see Nazali there, slumped in one of the overstuffed chaises, still nursing their coffee, along with Natiqa, who, despite drinking as much as Nazali, looked impeccable, aside from her bloodshot eyes and the very fine tremor in her hands as she lifted her cup of tea to her lips. In the corner was Bludmila, who stood with his arms crossed, looking wary. 

Nadia cleared her voice and gestured to the couches; Iris settled next to Asra, and Julian hovered behind them, leaning against the wall, looking rather bashful. 

Nadia surveyed the eight of them carefully. “I trust that what we are about to speak of is not to leave this room until we all agree that it must. Is that clear?” 

The room agreed, everyone showing their varying signs of assent. Nadia cleared her throat again, and seemed unsure how to start. “As most of you here are aware, there were some incidents last night, and through the course of these incidents, we discovered that there is a threat on the safety of Vesuvia. The cause and the cure of the Red Plague was discovered, and it is directly connected to life of my husband, Count Lucio, who we now know is not quite dead, even if he is not on this plane with us.”

Nazali held up a hand to Nadia, pausing her while rubbing their temples between the thumb and fingers of their other hand. “Wait…what? That’s utter nonsense, Didi. And not how diseases work.” 

“It’s true, Nazali.” Julian interjected. “It seems impossible, but it’s the truth.” 

Natiqa turned to him. “It’s certainly not wilder than Lucio not being dead because of a magic ritual gone wrong, but...how do you know?” 

Julian hesitated, and he looked sidelong at Iris, a fine blush creeping across his cheeks. Iris nodded slightly, and held out a hand to him, which he took gratefully, squeezing their interlocking fingers. “I...I went to the Hanged Man’s realm last night to find the cure for the plague. In the ritual that was supposed to bind Lucio’s to the Fool’s body, I forged a connection with the Hanged Man. I made a deal with him later to be cured of the plague myself when I was on the brink of death. That was when the cure was revealed to me.” 

“Can we trust what this… Hanged Man says?” Natiqa asked, eyes narrowed; she was still skeptical. 

Iris nodded. “The Arcana can’t lie. It’s simply not in their nature. They can omit truth, and they can obscure it, but they can’t lie.” 

On her other side, Asra shifted forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled between them. “The Arcana are Gods that see and shape much of the realms, but they’re not omnipotent. They’re bound by their own limitations. If Iris and Ilya heard the Hanged Man say that Lucio is the cause of the plague, then it’s the truth.” 

Nazali looked curiously at Iris. “You were there, too?” 

Iris bit her lip. “I followed Julian in...he acted alone, and we were concerned. Asra was able to send me to the Hanged Man’s realm, with the help of Nadia, Muriel, and Portia.” 

Nazali furrowed their brow as they turned to Julian. “Then how did _you_ get to the Hanged Man’s realm, Ilya? If Iris, a powerful magician, needed help to get there?” 

Julian fully reddened now; Iris gave him a reassuring squeeze of his hand. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat loudly. “I, um...that is, I...” he faltered. 

“He hung himself.” It was Muriel who spoke up, his voice even. “In the library. He was dead when we found him.” 

There was a sound of porcelain shattering as Nazali dropped their mug. Natiqa, for the first time since Iris had met her, seemed stunned into silence. Portia’s face twisted and she looked down at her hands, fisted and shaking in her lilac dress, fighting back tears; Nadia gently took one of her hands and ran a thumb over her knuckles, comforting her. 

“But you’re...you...” Nazali struggled to find words for a moment, until they shouted, “You stupid, reckless fucking idiot!” They stood and rushed to Julian, clutching his shoulder with one hand, taking his pulse with another. “How are you even alive?” 

“...Your bargain.” Natiqa said, finally finding her voice. “The gift brought you back from the _fucking dead_?”

“Bargain? Gift? What?” Nazali looked wild, bewildered now, as they feebly took Julian’s temperature, Julian’s face still beet red; he looked as if he wanted to disappear under Nazali’s absolutely withering gaze. 

“Show them.” Natiqa said, nodding, gesturing, but Iris shook her head. 

“The Hanged Man took it away after it brought Julian back.” She said quietly. She turned to Nazali. “It absorbed the wounds of others, but Julian took the wounds on himself. It also sped up Julian’s regeneration considerably.”

Nazali, finding nothing wrong with Julian’s vitals, grasped him firmly by the shoulders, staring at his face. “You really don’t know how to stay out of trouble, do you?”

Julian smiled sheepishly, his hands gently removing Nazali’s. “I know. Trust me, Iris and Portia read me the riot act last night.” 

Asra spoke up. “What’s done is done; what matters now is how we move forward. If we do nothing, the plague will return.” His gaze roved to Iris, then flitted away. “Who knows what we’ll lose if we let that happen.”

Nazali furrowed their brows. “That’s absurd. There have been no incidences of the plague anywhere in three years.” 

“Because Lucio is coming back.” Nadia said quietly. “Ilya, Asra, Iris, Portia, and I...we’ve seen him, in his rooms. He grows stronger each time we see him.”

“Muriel’s seen him, too. In the forest.” Asra added. “And the Magician, another Arcana, told us that Lucio tried to work out some deal with the Devil.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “If that’s true...then it’s entirely possible that he could come back in the flesh.” 

Nazali gasped. “Then the plague really could come back.” They turned to Nadia. “That can’t happen.” 

“I agree.” Nadia said firmly. “Which is why I’ve called you all here. I...I need your help.” Nadia heaved a great sigh, her eyes flitting to Bludmila’s. “Julian seeing the Hanged Man was not the only incident that occurred last night. The Courtiers...they have escaped into the night.” 

Natiqa groaned. “Can those fucking dungeons hold anyone?”

Nadia glared at Natiqa, but Iris furrowed her brows, thinking. “Julian and I saw Valdemar last night. They were here, in the dungeons.” She gasped slightly. “When I saw Lucio in his private dining room, he said the courtiers were helping him come back. They...they can’t have fled. They must be here, or at least nearby.” 

Nadia’s eyes sparked. “That’s good to know, Iris. Bludmila, you and your guards search the palace and the grounds for the Courtiers. If need be, move out into the city. Be sure to check the dungeons Iris speaks of. They can be accessed through the library. Muriel...” She turned now to him, looming in the corner. “...it is my understanding from Asra that you know the woods better than anyone, and that you are a very skilled tracker. I am sorry to ask more of you after the trial yesterday, but we need someone with your expertise to search the forest.” Muriel didn’t even flinch; he nodded once, and made to leave. 

Iris grabbed his hand quickly. “Take Vasalisa with you.” She implored him. “She can help you and Inanna, and you can reach me through her if you need help.” Muriel nodded again, and, with a halting, awkward gesture, rested his hand on Iris’s shoulder, squeezing once before exiting, Bludmila filing out behind him wordlessly. 

Nadia turned now to Nazali. “If the plague is truly coming back, we contingency plans in place to contain its reach, treat the afflicted, and protect Vesuvia from further ruin. You and Ilya are the leading experts in the Red Plague – whatever you need, we shall supply, but we need plans in place as soon as possible.” Nazali nodded brusquely, turning to Julian and smirking mischievously. 

“Time to see if the student has surpassed the teacher, eh? If you can stay out of trouble that long...” Julian just shook his head, rolling his eyes, but a smirk snuck across his lips. 

“Natiqa.” Nadia said. “I do not wish to cancel the masquerade if need be, as it will, undoubtedly, cause riots in the streets. You and I will work on contingency plans for the masquerade, should anything go awry during it; the safety of the citizens must be the our first priority. I will also need you to liaise with the public should anything happen.” 

“Got it.” Natiqa said. Nadia turned to Asra now. 

“Asra, I’m asking you to figure out how Lucio is coming back. I have no doubt you already have some leads that can get us closer to our answer. If I know anything about Lucio, it’s that he’ll want a grand entrance where he is celebrated; my intuition tells me he intends to return on the first night of the masquerade, what would have been his birthday. We do not have much time.” 

Asra nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking, too.” His eyes flitted to Iris, smiling warmly. “Iris’s already done a lot of the legwork, researching the first ritual.” 

Nadia smiled. “Yes, well, unfortunately...” Her eyes glittered as her gaze fell on Iris. “You will have to do without Iris today. I insist that she rest. She can assist you with your research tomorrow.” 

Iris groaned. “Really?” 

Nadia’s brows furrowed. “Iris, you have already done so much, and the last few days have been incredibly taxing on you. You don’t look well, dear.” 

Iris stood abruptly. “You expect me to just, fucking, kick up my feet while everyone else is scrambling to stop a deadly tyrant and a deadlier plague from coming back? That’s not going to happen.” 

Nadia raised her brows. “You are of no use to anyone if you pass out again, Iris.” Her gaze softened. “Do not make me command you, because I will.” 

Iris heaved a frustrated sigh and sat heavily back into the couch, raising her hands in defeat. “Fine. I give in. You all win.” 

Nadia’s eyes sparkled; Iris heard Julian snort behind her, Asra chuckle beside her. Portia shifted a little next to the Countess. “What would you have me do, Nadia?” 

Nadia smiled. “You will be resting, too, Portia. You’ve worked just as hard as Iris in the last two days preparing for the trial, on top of your other duties. And it is clear that you are shaken by last night, by no fault of your own. I still insist that you take the day off.” 

Portia scoffed. “I’m with Iris. If you think I’m just going to sit around on my thumb...” 

Nadia laughed lightly. “I will command you, also, my dear. Fret not – there is much to be done tomorrow.” 

Portia crossed her arms in a huff, a moue of frustration on her lips. Asra pressed a kiss into Iris’s lips, and Julian stooped to kiss the top of her head as they both filed out of the room; Portia and Iris locked eyes. Neither of them were happy about this.

*******

The nice thing about taking a day off with Portia was that Iris was given the MVP tour of the palace. Portia took her to the galleries, the menagerie, and the greenhouses (Iris was devastated to learn that no one had kept up the starstrands, replaced now with climbing lace, though she was delighted to learn of an entire greenhouse of white-winter lilies), but also the cavernous wine cellar, a vast basement swimming pool heated via natural hot springs, and a small, neglected theatre that could easily sit a hundred people. Portia even showed her the secluded cottage that Nadia had built for her on the very edges of the palace grounds, a simple three-room home with a full kitchen and bath and a wild, frolicking garden, complete with a friendly seal-pointed cat that allowed Iris to scoop her up and coo in her ear, scratch her chin.

Iris was also quite thankful that Portia was as chatty as her brother; Iris found it easy to make conversation with her, even as Portia drove most of it, telling stories of the palace, a bit of its history, along with stories of Nadia, the Courtiers, little rumors about Lucio. Iris wanted to ask her to tell her stories of Julian, their childhood together in Nevivon, especially as the two of them sat down to tea in her cottage, a simple affair with homebaked cookies and a pot of fruit-tinged green tea, but Iris sensed that if Portia wanted to talk of her brother, she would – all said, she seemed edgy and nervous, even as she put on a chipper facade. It made Iris wonder how she seemed to the others; perhaps she, too, seemed distracted and distant.

It was after tea that their paths diverged. They had enjoyed their jaunt together, but Iris could tell Portia was exhausted, happily slipping away into solitude as Portia laid down for a nap. Iris found herself wandering through the hedge maze, her thick white velvet cloak wrapped around her shoulders, idly turning, turning, turning through the winding paths, not really thinking at all about where she was going until she found herself at a dead end. 

It was an alcove, covered in arched trellises, that butted up against the massive, twisted trunk of a tree – no, not just any tree. It was the giant willow that blanketed the fountain in the center of the maze, the hedges practically growing into the ancient trunk. Its roots splayed out into the alcove, making natural, whorling seats that were spread over with fragrant moss and tiny white and purple lichenflowers.

Rather than turning back, Iris found herself sitting on one of those wise roots, her legs curled up underneath her, fingers tracing the gnarled bark. This spot felt familiar, somehow, comforting; it called to her quietly. As she pondered this, her hands fell into a curious groove near the base of the tree. Her gaze fell on the place her fingers worried, and her breath hitched in her throat. 

It was her name, carved deep into the bark, scarring the wood, the shape of the script almost childlike. Iris ran a fingertip over each rough letter, her heart aching; she knew, she knew, who carved this into the poor tree – his magic, his sorrow, practically seeped out of it. She felt the overwhelming warmth, like the overbearing midsummer sun against her back, and she sank into the memory. 

_Iris had no idea where she was, but it wasn’t Vesuvia. A desert country, hotter, rougher, further north, closer to the equator; even in the night, starry and cloudless, the dry heat was tyrannical. It sank, shifted, swelled, against her skin, and she was sweating, she was drenched...no. Asra was sweating. Asra was drenched._

_The room he was in was lush, draped all over with brightly colored tapestries, gauzy drapes in jewel-tones, covered in gaudily embroidered pillows and cushions, some as wide and long as Iris’s body was tall. He sat, back against the headboard of a low bed, looking out the unpaned, stuccoed window that framed a slivered moon, shimmering in the tricks of the heat. Iris felt the sharp, hollow ache in his chest even as there was a shuffling in the corner._

_A woman stood from the vanity of in the corner of the room – she was nude, skin glistening all over with sweat; in her hand was a long-stemmed pipe. She sat on the bed by him, every beautiful curve of her body glimmering in the moonlight, and she handed him the pipe, hot and ready; he inhaled deeply as she gently ran her hands over his clothed thighs. There was more movement in the room, and Iris saw two bodies shift and stretch as they emerged from the cushions: two more beautiful women, one’s alabaster skin pale against shiny, curly blonde hair, the other, skin the color of polished oak, her dark hair coiled and plastered against her skull._

_Asra inhaled twice, deeply, before passing the pipe to the three women in the bed with him. They all inhaled several times, sharing the pipe wordlessly between them; every once in a while, the first woman heated the pipe over the small lamp on the vanity while Asra watched passively, his entire body growing welcomely, deliciously heavy, every nerve uncoiling, every thought quieting, as he sank deeper and deeper into oblivion._

_He turned his eyes back to the window and the full moon, even as the first woman’s touches slowly drifted up his thigh, gently working apart the bindings that held his pants together; the other two women started touching him, too, one unbuttoning the stays of his sweat-soaked linen shirt, the other, her hand skating under the hem of his shirt to the delightful landscape of his stomach, his chest… But Asra hardly noticed, his thoughts elsewhere, the images in his mind’s eye vivid, now devoid of the pain that normally accompanied them..._

_Iris gasped as she plunged further inward, another scene unfolding before her; it was of her, her younger self, her memory self, stretching painfully in the large bed of Nadia’s bedroom. Iris’s long hair was mussed and matted with sleep, her face stained with rouge and kohl; she was completely naked, her body tangled in the purple silk sheets. Slowly she stood, wobbling; she ached, her legs, her insides, someone...someone had been inside her last night, but she couldn’t remember who. She crossed the room to the large window, nearly slipping on the blue taffeta dress she had clearly ripped off her body in a drunken frenzy, throwing open the curtains so the mid-morning sun could shine violently through, making her squint. There was a groan as Nadia, fully clothed on the other side of the king-sized bed, rolled over away from the light, clutching at her temples._

_Moaning slightly at the pounding of her head, Iris stumbled her way to the water closet; in it, she found a half-empty bottle of Golden Goose, bubbles evaporated; still, she grabbed the neck clumsily and took a long swig, relishing the sweet relief it gave her, even when flat and stale. As she set the bottle down, she peered in the mirror, her eyes red, the skin around them purpled, her cheeks puffy, her lips swollen from drink and rough kissing._

_Iris felt a roar of guilt, of remorse, of sharp anger, as she leaned forward and pressed her forehead into the porcelain of the sink’s lip, the coolness welcome against the half-drunken heat of her skin. She was so dehydrated that, even though she wanted so desperately to cry, to release her stinging loneliness, her unending sadness, into the ether, she couldn’t, she couldn't…_

_Iris felt another rush of heat as she plunged even deeper; this time, she was tailing Julian, walking through the seediest alleys of the Southside, the collar of his cloak turned up against his neck, his gaze shifting over his shoulder every few moments. Iris could see that his eyes were bloodshot, the skin under his eyes even more dark and pronounced; his cheeks looked waxy, his hair oily and lank. Eventually, he ducked deeper into the alleys, finally coming to rest at a busted-up back door, which he knocked on a few times in a clumsy but purposeful pattern._

_The door opened, and without a word, he slipped inside; there was a woman, a tiny, haggard slip no older than Iris, dark hair so dirty it was practically matted into locks. She held out her hand to him, into which he pressed a small velvet pouch of pentacles. With a small, wan smile, she rewarded him with a package of stark-white powder; Iris could see, feel, the relief in his eyes. He stumbled into the room just adjacent from the entryway – there were a few others lounging about, but they hardly noticed as Julian sank onto one of the filthy couches and prepared the heroin he purchased._

_Iris cringed but couldn’t look away as he rolled up his sleeve and expertly found the vein in his arm. He plunged a clean needle from his bag under his skin, and visibly shuddered as numbness flooded through him. He slumped back against the old couch, gently extracting the needle, as his vision blurred slightly, his entire body sighing as cool, soothing comfort washed over him…_

_Iris’s vision of the memories shifted back to her and Nadia, now dressing together, Nadia helping her to select a dark blue silk taffeta dress covered in clingy straps and ties that snaked down her front and back. As Iris tied them together, the laces bulging both grotesquely and attractively against her bare skin, Nadia disappeared, only to reappear with a tiny hooked spoon dipped in white powder; she held this to Iris’s nose, and Iris inhaled sharply, deeply._

_She felt it rush through her, both icy and hot, making her feel more beautiful, more intelligent, more interesting, as if she were the most enchanting woman on the planet. As she finished her straps, and Nadia draped her arms around her shoulders, regarding her in the long, full-length mirror, Iris felt an absolutely unfamiliar rush of energy, of horniness, of unadulterated happiness; the two of them, giggling endlessly, stumbled out of Nadia’s room into the masquerade..._

_Iris’s view shifted again, now to Asra; he was sprawled on the bed of the room in the brothel, hardly moving, as the coffee-skinned woman rode him, her hips undulating against his with hardly a sound, her face almost impassive, even with the opium coursing through her veins. The blonde licked at his nipples while the short-haired woman kissed and sucked on his neck, and all of their hands roved over his body, languidly, expertly, but Asra’s eyes were closed, lips parted, he was barely there, barely aware of what was happening to him; when his eyes fluttered open, the beautiful violet eyes Iris could stare into for hours, they were sparkling with tears…_

_Julian took an obscene pull from a glass flask of spiced rum, now nearly empty, and Iris felt the gripping burn in her throat and her stomach as it sank through her, as Julian retched a little, the acrid sting of bile filling his mouth as he stared out into the sea. He was so high, and so drunk, that the soft undulating waves made him slightly dizzy, but where could he go, where could he go? He rifled clumsily through his thin coat, far too thin for the early spring chill, but he barely felt it, his skin blanketed by the booze, the heroin. From his pockets, he pulled out another tiny velvet bag, his trembling, unsteady fingers struggling to undo the ties before he shook the contents of the bag out into his pale hand._

_It was the ring, the beautiful, delicate ring Iris was wearing now. For a horrible moment, Iris thought that Julian was going to impulsively toss it into the weeping sea, but as he regarded it, so tiny in his massive palm, his face crumpled and he devolved into sobs. He clutched it tightly and held it to his heart, his body nearly doubling over, protecting it, protecting it, before he took the final pull from his flask…_

_Iris and Nadia were dancing wildly on a packed, dark, dancefloor, Iris wearing the nearly indecent dress, Nadia in a short jade snakeskin cheongsam. The beat pounded relentlessly as they shimmied and shook, rolling their shoulders, slinking their hips; Iris’s eyes were closed, her head rolled back as she let the music take over her body, erase her consciousness so completely._

_A servant walked by with a tray of faintly smoking shots, each a shocking, vibrant hue; Nadia grabbed two of chartreuse and tapped Iris’s shoulder with her ring and pinky finger. Iris opened her eyes, and let Nadia push the shot into her hand; they silently saluted each other and skulled them, Iris tossing her head back as the sweet herbal, licorice-scented liquor coated her throat. Nadia also offered Iris a tiny bump off her fingertip, dipped from the surreptitious vial hung around her neck; Iris snorted it gratefully, expertly._

_Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of white, and her breath caught in her throat as she scanned the crowded room through wild eyes. There – an unmistakable riot of short, white hair. Heart pounding, alcohol and cocaine surging through her veins, Iris shoved the glass back into Nadia’s hands and shouldered her way through the crowd, weaving between writhing, dancing bodies until she made her way to the edge of the room. It was him – he was –_

_Iris’s hand fell on the shoulder attached the wild, white-haired head, and she immediately knew she was mistaken; not enough muscle, the slope wrong, just too tall – the woman turned around, older, paler, her features twisted into an abstract of confusion. Iris didn’t even acknowledge her, letting her hand fall away as she turned back to the crowd, angry at the tears that pricked her eyes, angry at herself, so stupid, so stupid –_

_She felt a strong hand wrap around her waist – a stranger, a man, tall and swarthy, long, sable curls falling over his shoulders, lips stretched into a teasing, lecherous grin as he pulled her hips into his. With a growl, Iris grabbed his chin and brought him down to her, their kiss hot, heavy, violent as she bit his lip hard, sucked his tongue into her mouth, as the beat pounded on and he roughly palmed her body…_

_Julian was sitting at a long, unfinished teakwood table in what looked like a practically empty loft apartment. The table was littered with paraphernalia, syringes and needles and vials, upended bottles of spiced rum and Eight of Cups, papers, books, dirty plates and ringed cups. Iris could hear the voice of a singer, a woman, throaty and low and rough, in the background. Julian skillfully removed the needle from his arm, his head sinking back against the tall rest of the chair._

_Iris heard the scraping sound of metal on wood as he reached for something on the table; the revolver, loaded with just one bullet in the chamber. With a practiced motion, Julian spun the chamber and – electric panic arced through Iris – placed the barrel to his temple, pausing only for a moment before pulling the trigger._

_The hammer clicked harmlessly against an empty chamber, the only sound in the large room as the record in the corner spun to its end. There was a pregnant silence, and then Julian chuckled once, airlessly, a twisted, drunken smile crossing his face, before he exploded into unhinged laughter, frightening laughter, as he laid his head down on the table, the gun clattering loudly to the floor as it dropped out of his hand..._

_And Iris was back in the brothel; the first woman had switched positions, now grinding slow and hard on Asra in reverse as the other two continued to lavish attention on him. Iris could tell he was close to orgasm, the way he was biting his lip, the soft grunts that welled up from him, the way his fingers found the shoulders of the women making love to him and clutched, clung, the way his chest heaved._

_Iris was torn asunder when he parted his lips and moaned, over and over, each time more pitiful, “Iris… Iris… Iris...” as he rutted his hips upwards, edging himself over the precipice. His eyes flew open as his voice hitched, the sound choked off, two glittering trails now cutting their way down the crests of his cheekbones as he came…_

“Grief’s a bitch, hm?” Iris heard a voice, her own, her own, cut through the memories as goosebumps rose on her skin, despite the fact that she was sweating in her cloak. Her eyes flew open; a vision of herself sat on the roots next to her, the same clothes as the memory – the strappy, lurid dress – but black, her long hair pulled up into a high bun, spiked with tiny jewels glinting like pomegranate aerils, the sclera crimson around indigo eyes. “One of the most powerful emotions mortals will ever feel, and the one they are least equipped to deal with. The one that’s most likely to drag them down into the void.” 

“Death...” Iris whispered as she regained her bearings; she focused on the feeling of the gouged bark beneath her fingers, the chilly air around her. She could feel her breath clawing, hot and useless, in her throat. “Why are you here?”

Death laughed once, airlessly. “You called for me, kiddo, and I came. I’m here with you.” Death breached the space between them and touched Iris’s face; her hands were ice-cold. 

“I called for you?” 

Death chuckled. “I don’t just govern over the death of the body, Iris. I govern the death of all things, the grieving of what’s lost, and what’s sown in the fertile soil left behind.” She leaned back, surveying Iris. “There’s only so much fucking carbon on the planet; some shit has to die in order for the rest of the shit to live.” 

Iris shook her head. “I don’t understand...” 

Death smirked. “You’ll come to a crossroads soon, kid, and you’ll have to make a choice. You have an infinite number of choices, but going back is not one of them. Don’t let their pain, _your_ pain, go to waste.” She leaned forward now, their noses almost touching. “Pain, grief, loss...shit’s all excellent fertilizer. But it has to be processed first. Felt. Seek out those memories. Feel them. And then...” Death plucked a bud from a nearby branch; it blossomed into life, a whitewinter lily. “Grow.” 

Iris furrowed her brows, and Death laughed. “You’re a smart girl. You don’t have to understand now.” She stood, brushing off the short, ruched skirt of the dress. “Don’t keep your boys waiting.” With an arch of her brow, Iris’s thick, dark brow, a flounce of shapely hips, she rounded the corner behind the hedges and disappeared. 

Around Iris, dusk was just dancing away, leaving behind the heavy veil of night; it was close to dinner time. She only glanced over her shoulder once, to memorize the sight of the willow tree, its roots, her name tattooed into the bark, the frame of the trellis, the arched hedge of the dead-end, before Iris hustled herself back to the palace, heartbeat like a forest fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: The Devil’s in the details...
> 
> See you in Part 2.


	8. Death, Part 2: Not Even Another Eternity Could Stop Our Lovely Orbiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Purity Ring - begin again**
> 
> _CW: MCD referenced, suicide referenced, allusions to drug use and addiction, allusions to and conversations regarding noncon/dubcon_

Dinner was rather quiet. Iris was happy to be reunited with Asra and Julian, who had both been holed up in the library, working on their separate tasks, but she hadn’t expected them to bring their work with them. Asra had several thick tomes spread out around his plate; he pored over them just as he would when he was buried in his studies at the shop, their backroom table covered in scrolls and spellbooks that he only looked up from to kiss Iris as she brought him tea or food. Even as he held her hand on the table while they ate, he was wholly entrenched in his task, flipping the pages with his magic as he absentmindedly pushed salmon steak, currant-spiked biryani, and blanched asparagus around on his plate. 

Julian and Nazali, on the other hand, were fussing quietly over details of their containment plan, something about biomonitoring and interventions, sourcing what Nazali eloquently called a ‘metric fuckton’ of blue tansy on such short notice. Julian had dropped a grateful kiss on Iris’s lips and asked her about her day as they sat down to eat, but Iris could tell he was distracted and kept her answer short, even though she was dying to tell him about the theatre, Portia’s cottage, the wine cellar. 

Nadia and Natiqa were the only two others who joined them; Iris learned that Navra, Nasmira, and Nahara had been tasked with overseeing the rest of the masquerade preparations, and would be eating later. Muriel had not yet returned; Aster and Dara had gone back to the city, Dara to the Raven, and Aster to Iris’s shop, running it while she was at the palace, just as, Iris suspected, she had before, when Iris was under Nadia’s employ. 

Nadia and Natiqa were more lively than her lovers, joking with each other and Iris. When Iris told them she had seen the small theatre, Natiqa told an absolutely jawdropping story of a horrifying all-nude production of _The Taming of the Shrew_ , starring Lucio and an actress that was almost a spitting image of Nadia. Both were atrocious actors, to no one’s surprise, and to make matters worse, the actress had absolutely no aptitude for Elizabethan pentameter – Natiqa’s imitation of her giving Kate’s lines had the entire table gasping with laughter.

As they all finished dessert, a rich cake flavored with orangeblossom water and ringed in caramelized orange slices, Asra leaned into her and whispered gently into her ear: “The library, after dinner. I’ll bring Ilya. Meet us there.” Iris squeezed his hand, turned and kissed the corner of his mouth, before standing. 

Iris didn’t realize her heart was pounding until she had closed the doors to the dining room behind her, and her soft footfalls were echoing through the cavernous marble hallways. How would Julian react, knowing that Asra had taken his memories of her away? They seemed to be growing friendlier with each other, certainly more affectionate, more physical – but Iris couldn’t shake the feeling that their relationship was precarious, shadows lurking below the surface, threatening to capsize them all. 

Iris was shocked out of her reverie by the sound of claws clicking on marble, paw pads on her shoulders, a warm tongue licking her face; Vasalisa, snuffling with happiness after a long day of separation. “Oh, girl...” Iris whispered, kneeling down to hug the wolf to her. “I missed you. Did you find anything?” 

_No one…_

There were more footfalls, heavier ones, followed by the scents of cedar and myrrh, the faint earthen scent of the forest, sweat; another snout gently nosed against Iris, almost tentatively, and she stroked Inanna’s head gently as she nuzzled Vasalisa, Muriel looming quietly in her periphery. 

“Vasalisa said you didn’t find anything. I’m sorry to hear that.” She said quietly, turning back to him; he nodded softly, gentle green eyes closing. He looked absolutely exhausted. 

“I...” Iris paused. She was still so uncertain around Muriel. “I wanted to say thank you for last night. And for the trial. And...for this, too. For everything.” She bit her lip. “I know you’re doing this for Asra, and you’re not fond of me. But I’m happy you’re in our corner.” 

Muriel blushed. Iris planned to leave it at that, but he swallowed hard before speaking very quietly. “You’re different than you were.” 

Iris’s chest tightened. “You...what do you mean?” 

Muriel struggled to find the words. “You’re...kinder. Gentler. You and Asra...” he paused. “I didn’t think you were good for him back then.” 

Iris trembled. “Am I good for him now?” 

Muriel averted his eyes and blushed more deeply. “He’s...happier when he’s with you.” 

Iris smiled gently, and stood; Vasalisa took post at her feet. “Thank you.” She whispered. With a moment’s hesitation, she laid her hand on the swell of his bicep. “I hope we can be friends, Muriel. Asra cares for you, and that matters to me.” 

He smiled, barely – Iris realized that she hadn’t seen him _smile_ before – and his eyes meet Iris’s for the swiftest moment before they darted down, away. Iris squeezed his arm once, tenderly, before letting her hand fall away, gesturing down the hall to the dining room with her chin. “They’re just finishing up with dinner. I’m sure if you caught them, the kitchen would get a plate ready for you.” 

He nodded once, eyes still averted, and set off, his gait slow, tired. Iris’s heart ached a little for him, but she couldn’t help the swell of joy that surged through her. She might win him over yet. 

The library wasn’t too far off – the door had been left ajar, and she slipped inside silently, Vasalisa trotting behind her, panting happily. The library was impossibly dark, even when Iris lit the sconces with her magic; she found herself wandering the shelves, waiting for Asra and Julian to join her. 

She found herself in a strange section of the library, filled with slender volumes, some spines not even thick enough to hold text. She pulled one out gently, so thin and delicate; all that indicated what it was was a tiny red heart on the spine, in the middle of the cover. She opened it, flipped through. It was poetry, translated to Vesuvian from a long-dead language that preceded Castilibero, the originals and the translations nestled side-by-side on the pages, mirror images of each other, the same but not – Iris couldn’t help but wonder what was lost in translation, the subtle nuances of a language no one had spoken since before the first magician. She turned to the first poem, read the first lines: _Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs / You look like the World, lying in surrender…_

With a soft shudder of pleasure, Iris closed the book and held it to her chest; she wandered, looking for a place to lay, to read. Her bare feet lead her to the alcove where Julian and Asra’s desks were tucked away, and by Asra’s desk now lay a small pile of pillows and cushions, even a woven Nopali blanket. Iris laid herself down, sprawling comfortably, her head resting on the soft swell of her shoulder as she read on, Vasalisa curled up happily besides her. 

_I was alone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me / and night overcame me with its crushing invasion. / To survive, I forged you like a weapon / an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling..._

Iris read and read, her heart full and hurting, as she waited. These poems, these poems...had the poet peered into her own heart, seen the gentle, persistent ache that love was cast from, like molten steel? 

_I remembered you with my soul clenched / in that sadness of mine that you know // Where were you then? / Who else was there? / What did you say? / Why does the crush of love come to me suddenly / when I am sad and you are far away from me?_

Iris must have dozed off. The next thing she knew, a warm, gentle hand gripped her shoulder, rousing her. When she fluttered her eyes open, she was met with sweet soulful violet, tawny fingers carefully extricating the delicate book from her hands, glancing over the cover. “Neruda...” Asra whispered, a small smile slipping across his face. “You used to love him...” 

There was another soft hand that fell on her, her bare waist; Julian’s, his long fingers whispering tenderly over the cinches of her belly, his gray eye warm and adoring. “I’m glad you’re resting.” He murmured, as Iris sat up, rubbing her eyes. He settled into a seat on the cushions across from her, long legs sprawled out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Asra sat cross-legged next to Iris, and wrapped his other arm around her shoulder, not for her own comfort, but for his. 

She took his other hand; it was shaking, and she gave it a squeeze, which he returned. She didn’t know what to say, so she waited quietly, her lips parted, as Asra gathered his strength. She could feel Julian’s eye on both of them, curious and confused. 

“Ilya...” he finally said. “I... I asked to speak with you for a reason. ...There’s...there’s something that you should know. That...” he glanced quickly at Iris, his eyes dark with uncertainty. “That Iris and I want you to know.” 

Julian’s brows furrowed, gaze shifting from Iris to Asra to Iris again, uncertain, but he said nothing. 

Asra drew up a quivering breath, and continued. “The memories you’re missing...your memories of Iris...” He sighed deeply. “I...I know where they are. They’re in the Magician’s realm. I hid them there.” 

He paused, waiting for Julian to process this information. His brow furrowed a little deeper, his eye darting wildly between the two of them. Finally, he spoke. “Wait...what?” 

Asra bit his lip, looked sidelong at Iris. She swallowed. “Asra...Asra removed your memories of me, nearly four years ago. The same...the same way he removed my memories, those first months after he brought me back.” She explained, her voice sounding small, and far away. She reached into Julian’s lap and gently squeezed his hand, but his graceful fingers hung limply in hers. 

“Why?” He murmured. Iris sensed the knife-edge of anger in his voice, even as he struggled to comprehend. Iris turned to Asra; she felt the heat swimming up to her cheeks, tears stinging in her eyes. 

“Ilya...please understand. It wasn’t easy for me.” Asra said, his voice firmer now. “You were in so much pain.” 

“So you took her away?” Julian barely choked out. “You took her away from me?”

“Ilya, no...” Asra responded, voice skittering. “You don’t understand...” 

“I have no memories...” Julian’s voice broke, and though Iris wanted to look away, she couldn’t, even as his visible eye grew dewy. “No memories of our love. Because you took them away.” He paused for a very long time. “I spent years feeling so empty I wanted to die...because of you?” 

Iris braced herself. She knew what was coming next, even before Asra spoke the words into being, into truth. “You tried to kill yourself after Iris died, Ilya. I was the one who found you, who cut you down. In this very library. I took your memories away that night; I did it to keep you alive.” 

Julian inhaled sharply, and Iris had to clench her other hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing. “That… I didn’t ask for that.” Julian spat, his voice trembling, lips pulled into a sneer. “You always had to have the last fucking say.” 

“Wh...what the fuck does that mean?” Asra sniped back, hackles raised. Iris’s head shot up, eyes wide. 

Julian sneered, and his eyes darkened with anger. “You’ve always been a controlling little shit. Everything had to be on your terms. Even when we were together.” 

Asra’s eyes darkened. “I saved your life. You were a mess, falling down drunk and doped out of your skull. It’s not my fault you practically threw yourself at me afterwords.” Asra’s teeth were bared now, eyes flashing dangerously. “And we were _never_ together.”

Julian practically growled. “It certainly seemed like it, the way you used me for your comfort nearly every night for months.” 

“You certainly weren’t complaining when you were on your knees with my cock stuffed down your throat...” 

“That’s enough.” Iris lifted her pointer finger in a commanding gesture, white-hot sparks gently arcing between the two of them. “This is getting us nowhere.” 

“Oh, no….” Asra purred sarcastically, cruelly. “This is getting us exactly where we need to be...talking about Ilya’s feelings...” 

“At least I have feelings, _ti bezosjećajni seronjo_.”

"And the _Nivevonii_ comes out! Do you know how agonizing it is to carry the worst memories of your life alongside my own, Ilya? I carried them for you for four fucking years. I’ve seen things, felt things, that would turn you inside out.” 

“And I scoured the earth for those memories; I was looking for them, even when _jebao sam te_. I wanted to feel them. What, were you afraid Iris would choose me over you?” 

Iris gasped, and, besides her, Asra’s gaze sharpened; she could feel the magic surging through him, angry, suffocating. 

“You let her die, Ilya. Not only was she your apprentice, she was your partner.” 

Julian froze, his mouth open, his eyes vibrating as they scoured Asra’s face. “What?” 

Asra’s beautiful features twisted into an evil scowl; he held up a hand, one long, ringed finger. “I asked one thing of you, to protect her, and you couldn’t even do that. You were so focused on finding the cure that you let her burn in the Lazaret.” 

Iris wanted to die as Julian’s handsome face crumpled. “She...what?” 

“Asra, don’t...” Iris whimpered, but he ignored her, his brows arcing wildly. 

“You must have worked it out on your own, Ilya, you’re not stupid, even if you act like it. Iris died of the plague. You were fucking someone infected with it, and you passed it on to her.”

Julian’s eye widened, wild with fear; Iris’s heart broke when he turned to her, voice vibrating with tears, shoulders shaking as he grasped her hand, desperately. “ _Draga moj, starstrand moj...sve što vidim na svjetlu..._ "

Iris wheeled on Asra. "That's not fair..." 

Asra turned to her and sneered. "I'd have killed Lucy before I fucked him, Iris. Ilya didn't have the guts."

Iris felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. Julian arced in her periphery, his broad back straightening, before he stood. 

"A fine sacrifice you made of me, Asra." He snarled. "I kept your lover warm and happy, and then you erased her from me. You warmed your body with mine while you bided your time, brought her back to life, and kept her for yourself while I wandered alone earthside. _Nitko ne mari kad je kazalište gotovo_." His lip curled. "You are not good, Asra." 

Asra smarted, and Iris saw the magic sparking dangerously from his fingers as he stood and squared his shoulders against the much taller man. Suddenly, a chill passed over her back and a hot whisper caressed her ear.

"That's enough." It breathed, thousands of women's voices, layered over and over and over, sweet and terrifying. "Bring both of these chucklefucks to the Lazeret. I’ll handle this." 

Iris gasped as she stood, unbidden, her hands shaking as one each fell on the shoulder of her lovers. " ** _Stop this._** " Her voice boomed, startling the both of them; she saw both of their eyes were sparkling with tears, just as hers were. She sniffled quietly before she spoke again.

"We're going to the Lazaret."

*******

"Iris." Asra murmured softly against her neck. "Are you sure about this, my heart?"

Iris took a deep breath, seven counts in, seven counts out. "Yes. I'm sure." 

The three of them were standing on the docks, staring out into the sea. The night had grown misty and cold, the fogs swirling ominously over the gentle, inky waves, their soothing, sibilant roar, but she could still see the Lazaret, the horrible chimneys, the tall sycamores, whispering out of the mist. 

Julian's hand on her shoulder, arm draped across her back, gripped her a little harder. "If this...if this is what calls to you..." He turned to her, gaze warm, if apprehensive. "I'll follow you wherever you lead, Iris." 

Iris felt Asra tense beside her, his arms around her waist tighten. "I'd rather go anywhere else." He whispered; Iris was moved by the soft tremor of his voice, the uncharacteristic vulnerability. "The worst memories of my life...are of the Lazaret. But..." He straightened a little, an icy veneer stiffening over his face. "If this must be the place, then there's no way in hell I'm sending you there alone." 

Julian ignored Asra's pointed jab as he let his hand slip from Iris's shoulder, striding over to a gondolier and conversing quietly before handing her a rather large velvet pouch that jangled with pentacles. The gondolier's eyes boggled as she shook some of the coins out into her hand to count, and Julian waved them over quickly, his palm resting firmly on the small of Iris's back as he helped her into the boat. 

"Let's get going...before she realizes that's pirate gold." He whispered to them as Asra took a long, impossible, graceful step from the pier to the gondola, buoyed by his magic. He settled into the seat at the bow, and tapped the hull twice with the flat of his palm just as Iris sat carefully on the bench in the stern. The boat lurched forward before Julian had a chance to brace himself, and he stumbled ungainfully into the bench, knocking his knee with a dull smack; he winced as Iris helped him up into the seat, as she wrapped one arm around his waist. 

Asra guided the gondola gently away from the dock with his magic, before they took off, propelled as if on a rapid, steadfast river, a current that cut through the sea like an undertow. Iris shuddered a little as the spray covered them in a fine, chilly shroud; she was thankful for her thick velvet cloak as she pulled it closer over her shoulders. A warm arm encircled her, pulled her close; Julian laid his chin on her head, and she settled her cheek against his shoulder as he looked back at the city, slowly receding behind them, fading into the mist. 

For a few moments, they were all silent, Asra focused on navigating, Iris and Julian clinging to the warmth of the other. It was Julian who cleared his throat quietly, broke the silence. 

"Iris...I, erm...I need you to understand." His voice was so broken. "I-I didn’t want Lucio. I never did." 

"Oh, darling..." Iris wrapped both her arms around his waist. She could never bring him close enough; if she could fold him into her body, she would. "I know; I saw. I...I know." 

"You saw?" He said quietly, shifting so their gazes met. Iris nodded and took a deep breath. Under his cloak, she gently touched the place where his ribs corseted in; she felt the hard, cold bulk of the revolver under the linen and shivered a little, her intuition correct. 

"I found this in your office, and it showed me some of your memories. You...you wanted to protect me. You felt helpless." Her voice hitched in her throat and hot tears pricked the corner of her eyes. "You said you would die for me, if it meant I was safe. And then I saw...I saw you cut a deal with Lucy. He wanted me, but you stepped in. You for me. Oh, Ilya...darling..." 

He kissed her, a gloved thumb gently wiping away the tears that fell. "I would do it again, Iris. If it meant you were safe." 

Iris pulled away from him, horrified. "No...no! I wouldn't want you to. I don't want you to die for me, to protect me. I want you to help me. I want to help you." Her lips trembled. "You don't have to shoulder these burdens alone anymore." 

" _Draga moj._ " He whispered, his gaze warm. "My darling. I know, I know. I've had my life's fill of going it alone." He pulled her closer, practically into his lap. "Especially now that I don't have to."

Iris pressed her forehead into his chest, and her eyes flitted to Asra; he was watching them, his eyes slightly narrowed, but she could see him, read the confused miasma that swirled beneath, the pain, the bitterness, the affection, the love. 

Iris bit her lip, then pressed her mouth against Julian's jaw. "Asra...Asra didn't do it to control you." She whispered. "He did it because you were in pain. He didn't know what to do to help you...he was in pain, too. It...it took me a while to understand that." 

"But he blames me." Julian said quietly. "I don't fault him for that. I blame myself." 

"Don't." She said, firmly. "I know it's easier said than done...that it may take us all a lifetime...but we have to stop blaming each other. Blaming ourselves. You are not to blame. None of us is." 

"None of us is blameless, either." He murmured, stroking her hair. 

"Maybe. Probably." Iris said softly, drawing him close. "But we can't go back. Only forward." 

He held her for one moment longer, before kissing the top of her head gently. 

"Go to him." He whispered. 

Iris kissed his lips once, deeply, then stood on wobbly legs, carefully stepping over the benches of the gondola to the bow. She was surprised to see Asra sweating a little, his breath shallow; he was tiring quickly from all the magic he was exerting. 

"Stubborn ass." She murmured, and swatted his hand away from the hull, before leaning over the gunnel and dipping her hands into the water. The boat shuddered once, before speeding forward again; Iris could see the Lazaret, the horrifying smokestacks of the furnaces, looming larger and larger. 

"Thank you." Asra murmured, leaning back against the bow, catching his breath; Iris watched his chest rise and fall, the soft folds of his cloak shifting with each inhale, exhale. Iris laid her hand over his heart, which he covered with one of his, strong and warm and still pulsing with his magic. 

"That went about as well as I thought it would." He murmured to her, opening one eye. 

Iris pursed her lips. "Your temper certainly didn't help. I'm not sure I've ever seen be that...cruel.” She paused, dragging her teeth over her bottom lip. “Not that I remember.”

Asra’s eyes darkened, his gaze far away. "We always brought out the bad in each other. Ilya and I." He murmured. 

Iris considered this, her eyes downcast. "You were moving through so much. Even after Julian...his memories. I think you just....didn't know. How to be good to each other.”

Asra was silent, contemplative. Iris bolstered herself, and pressed a little harder. The boat jerked, and sped up. 

"Do you really blame him?" 

He sighed, and his eyelids fluttered open. He parted his lips once, then closed them. He interwove his and Iris's fingers together, clutched them tightly to his heart; it was pounding under his skin, in tandem with Iris's, racing, skipping. 

“They don't agree." He muttered. He gestured to his head, rolling his hand, his ringed fingers, elegantly on his wrist. "I understand that there was nothing he could do. I accepted it a long time ago. But here...." he squeezed Iris's hand now. "I'm still so angry. I'm angry he let you down in those dungeons with him. I'm angry he let Lucy wear him down, stomp all over him. Angry...angry you two fell in love. I’m angry that I left you at all."

Iris drew up her breath as more tears fell down her face. "Then why did you leave, Asra? Why didn't you come back? I..." She bit her wobbling lip. "I was lost after you left. I saw. A mess. I was fucking strangers, doing drugs, drinking myself under the table." 

Asra turned his eyes to her; Iris felt stripped, nude, in his soft, reverent gaze. "I had to protect you, too, Iris." He heaved a horrible, blistering sigh, his head falling back onto the bow. "But it didn't matter. Lucy put you in the ground, in the end." 

Iris clutched his hand even harder; she felt her nails digging into his palm. "I'm here now; we're all here, alive somehow. What's done is done." She stooped to kiss him. "But we have to forgive each other. We have to forgive ourselves. All of us." 

Asra sighed, and kissed her back, gently. The Lazaret was all they could see now, as Iris guided the gondola around the tall rocky cliffs to the sandy shores of the moon-shaped island's bay. She couldn't help but gasp as they grew closer; before all she could see was the slate-gray cliffs, smeared even now with black soot and orange-red lichen, but now, she could see the impossible stretch of beach, once beautiful with sugar-white sand, now stained gray and flecked with layer upon layer upon layer of black ash, dotted in huge irregular heaps, as far as Iris could see. Graves. Mass graves. 

Nature had worked hard to reclaim the island. What must have once been a cleared path of wooden steps up to the quarantine-quarters-turned-crematorium was now an impossible thicket of trees, yew and holly and elder saplings, nurtured by the new, nitrogen-rich soil (Iris's stomach churned). 

"Why did you bring us here, Iris?" Asra murmured beside her; she glanced over to him, saw his eyes were trained on the horrible beach, a fine tremor in his voice, his shoulders. 

Iris pressed her lips together. "Death spoke to me. She told me to come here. To bring you two." 

Asra regarded her curiously. "Death? The Arcana? Has she visited you before?" 

"No...I mean, yes. Actually." Iris said, remembering. "But only today. I met her in the Hanged Man's realm. I was being led astray by the memories of my past, and she intervened. And today...she showed me memories of us, all three of us, mourning. Grieving. Your leaving, and my...my dying."

Asra furrowed his brows, deep in thought. "It's not like an Arcana to intervene like that in a mortal's affairs. Especially one as unmovable as Death."

Iris smiled. "I think...she’s my patron. She told me she was rooting for us. For all three of us." Julian had joined them at the bow, laying a large, gentle hand on Iris's shoulder as the boat slowed, approaching the shore. Once the water shallow enough, he hopped out and carefully, skillfully, dragged the boat out of the surf, mooring it in the sand before knotting it deftly to a nearby tree. For the first time, Iris realized his ridiculous tall boots were for more than just aesthetics. 

Asra helped her out of the boat now; Iris was thankful that Nadia had dressed her in pants today, though the linen arabesque trousers, the diaphanous sleeves and embroidered bodice of her midriff-bearing blouse, did little to cut the wind on the open water, the tall cliffs protected them a little from the cold rolling off of the Courageous sea. 

They all looked up the path, up the hill to the giant, blackened brick building; so thick was the forest now that she could hardly see even its silhouette, only the portending, ominous chimneys, the tall sycamores that crowned them. Iris took Asra's hand, then Julian's. 

"I don't know what awaits us here." She murmured to them. "All I know...is that Death is asking us to face it together." She gave them both a gentle squeeze. "I'm glad you're here with me. Both of you."   
Asra smiled gently, so gently; Julian returned the squeeze of her hand, gray gaze trained darkly on the path ahead of them. 

Using his magic, Asra lead, tenderly guiding the wild roots and branches off of the steps, Iris and Julian following close behind. They were all silent for some time, save for the sounds of rustling foliage, until Julian spoke up. "I've never been here before." He admitted quietly. "All the doctors saw the plans for the quarters, and later, the crematoriums, but only a few were allowed to set foot on the actual island. Too dangerous. The people who cared for the dying were condemned criminals." He paused, and Iris reached for his hand, her fingertips trailing over his branded hand as Asra looked at him over his shoulder, violet eyes shimmering and sad. 

"Still, it came to me in my dreams, haunted me. A perfect monument of my failures. But...it's almost peaceful here now." Julian touched the trunk of one of the elder saplings that lined the path, the young plant strong and hardy. "If nothing else, something is able to grow in this horrible place." 

Iris smiled, her gaze starry. "Do you remember the night you broke into the shop, Julian?" 

He snorted. "It was hardly breaking in. I had a key." 

Iris rolled her eyes, and felt a little surge of happiness when she heard Asra chuckle quietly. "I read the Tarot for you, and you drew the **Death** card?"

"Ah." Julian sighed. "I've thought quite a bit about what you said in that reading. In the – the last few days." Iris was a little shocked when he recited her words back to her. " _She isn’t just an end – she is a beginning. There are no lessons worth learning that Death doesn’t write herself_."

Iris smiled softly. "Death is the grave, but she's also the flowers that grow on the grave. The things that take the place of what dies." 

"Like the forest here." Julian said quietly. 

"Exactly." Asra replied, warmly, before stopping cold in his tracks, Iris and Julian almost bumping into him. 

They had leveled, reaching the apex of the steps. The building that filled their view now was massive, not black-bricked as Iris originally thought, but red-orange and completely covered in soot and ash, with sprawling wings like some ferocious carrion bird, the crematorium unfathomably large, each chimney an obsidian obelisk. There was a wrought-iron gate just in front of them, shrouded by overgrown willow fronds, nearly covering the inscription: _Dreamers, they never learn._

Iris felt Asra tremble beside her, and slipped an arm in his. Julian squeezed Asra's shoulder gently and then pushed open the gate, cracking the dried vines in the scrollwork so they could slip inside. They crossed the short courtyard, perhaps once manicured and maintained to comfort the dying, but now, only covered in soot; there was even a small, once-white marble fountain, now dusty and clogged with oily grime. 

The doors were gone, splintered on their hinges with rot and neglect; carefully, they picked their way across them into a darkness so oppressive that, for a moment, Iris thought she had been dipped in oblivion, all her senses ripped from her. She could hardly feel Asra's hand in her hand, Julian's fingers on the small of her back. 

Then, the atrium filled with a rosy orange light, like bottled sunset; Asra had cast an orb, and Iris followed. The floorboards that held up the second floor had collapsed through, coating the entire entryway in rubble; vines and branches choked and split through the brick, doing their damndest to tear down the onerous scar the mortals had left in their world. 

The atrium opened to four massive wings, each stretching, infinitely it seemed, with row after row after row of rusted metal bedframes, thin, moldering mattresses. At the fifth apex of the pentacle was a horrible, horrible cast-iron door. For a moment, Iris was uncertain what to do, what called her there, and then she saw the gentlest shimmer against the door's handle. Carefully, she crossed the atrium, heart pounding; she tried to open the door with her hands, but it was too heavy, the handle too oily, slipping between her fingers. She was ready to use her magic, but two pairs of hands descended on hers, and together, the three wrenched open the doors to the crematorium. 

It was smaller than Iris expected, and more unassuming; lined with 13 furnaces, each big enough to hold a large man, now lifeless, cold and empty. The dust-covered floor beneath them felt slick on Iris's bare feet – ashes, the ashes of the dead. The aura of the building, the whole island, was leaden and heavy with Death, but in this room, this room, it was palpable; it coated the skin of her arms, her neck, her chest and midriff, with a slippery, greasy feeling, unctuous and uncomfortable. Here, Iris heard the gentlest whispering, not frightening, not malicious, but the many voices of those who died here overlapping, over and over and over again. 

"Iris." Asra whispered. "Are you okay? No headaches, no pain?" 

"I'm fine, my heart." She whispered, grasping his hand tighter. He sighed, his voice steeped in heartache. 

"I tried to tell you so many times what happened to you here." He muttered. The earnest tears welling in his large eyes sparkled in the low, orange light. "You don't have any memories of this place, but your body...it was burned here. You donated your body to the doctors when you died, but they couldn't handle the volume, either, so they sent the remains here. It was better that, I suppose, than...than being burnt alive..." He couldn't go on, more tears slipping down his cheeks. Iris reached out to him, cupping his cheek with her unburdened hand, pressing her forehead into his. 

"My heart. My sweet, sweet heart." She whispered, brushing the tears away. Somehow, this time was different; she felt almost empowered being here, bolstered, seeing with clear eyes for the first time, her heart and her head finally resolving, accepting, the paradox of her existence. Dead, but alive. Here, but once gone. Her body, but not her body. She drew up a breath, somehow sweet, refreshing, as if she had been holding her breath for a long, long, time. 

It was then that she heard a sound like shifting sand, and felt a gentle tug at her feet. Suddenly, she was sinking, sinking, into the ashes that coated the floor, as if the floor didn't exist. Asra cried out and clung to her, but he was sinking, too; she felt Julian's strong arms around her waist, trying to hoist them both back up, but she pulled him into the sinkhole like a dying star. 

She still felt their hands, their arms, around her as they sank into the void, ashes filling her mouth, her lungs, burning her eyes, her skin on fire as she was consumed; then there was dirt, scraping at her skin, suffocating her, the clawed feet and glittering carapaces of beetles, the saponaceous slime of worms and grubs and maggots, and then...

There was only white light as Iris descended gently, Asra and Julian still in her arms, into an empty, echoing realm that went on infinitely. The only movement Iris saw was a gentle ripple in the light as they came to rest, like a pebble dropping in a glassy pond, but going on forever, growing, growing, never stopping, even as the ripples receded from their view. And then...

The crystal clear water shimmered, and from it, a shape formed, then a body. Iris's body, the soft slope of her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, the smirking full mouth, the long pierced nose. Her hair was long, wound into two buns under her ears, spun through with tiny glittering rubies on silver strands. Death wore a flowing white dress with an empire waist, shoulders bare, the neckline and long sleeves embroidered with slivered silver moons. The sclera of her eyes were crimson, and the iris and pupil were black and glittering, doe-wide, soft and observant and playful. 

"Oh, child." She whispered. "You made it." She flung her arms out wide. 

Before Iris understood, her body lunged forward, running towards Death, her footfalls sending more unending ripples through the bright white world. They embraced, Death lifting her off her feet and spinning her, and Iris was shocked at how warm she was, how familiar, like a friend she had lost but never forgotten. 

"Is this your realm?" Iris murmured, pulling away. Impossibly, despite the distance she'd run, she felt Asra and Julian right behind her, their warmth pulsating against her skin, their hands falling on her shoulders, her arms, her waist, making sure she was okay, still there, still alive. 

Death's eyes shifted slightly, betraying a simmering enmity. "No. In this state, I can't enter my own realm, and I can't sustain myself earthside, either. I can exist only in the realms of other Arcana, and in gates like these." 

"Whose gate is it?" Iris asked quietly; she heard a soft inhale behind her. 

"Not whose." Asra murmured, eyes wide. "The Lazaret's. So many people died there...the constant release of life. It created a gate connecting to your realm." 

Death's eyes glittered with amusement. "You were always such a clever thing, Asra." 

Julian's hand tightened around Iris's shoulder. "Why can't you go back to your realm?"

Death's eyes danced over to him now, tracing his tall silhouette. "Hello, Ilya. Remember me?" 

He paused a moment, eye vibrating, searching himself. "I saw you in the Hanged Man's realm." He said finally, solemnly. "I thought you were Iris...I followed you through the swamp to the lantern. To the Hanged Man."

Death grinned, tracing his jawline with her thumb. "I won't lie, it was a little disappointing to let you go again. You flirt and flirt and flirt with me, but you won't give up the goods. You're like a cat – nine lives." 

"Or a cockroach." Asra muttered with a smirk. "Impossible to kill." 

Death laughed; it was not Iris's laugh, soft and playful, but her own: hearty, loud, deep. "Now, now, child. Ilya would be sleeping in my arms every night if it wasn't for you." 

Both Asra and Julian blushed; Julian looked down at his hands, and Asra bit his lip, carefully regarding Death. 

"You didn't answer Ilya's question." He observed. 

"Ah." Death's eyes sparkled. "There's no fooling you three." Her demeanor shifted a little, her voice growing cold and crystalline. "I suppose it will be clearest if I start from the beginning. A very long time ago, thousands of years ago, the Devil approached me with a plan. He'd tired of eternity, and had found a way to break down the limn between your realm and ours. He wanted to merge them into something new, where nothing changes, and nothing ends. A place that would give him, give us, infinite power over mortals."

Iris furrowed her brows. "But you rule over change. Over ends, and beginnings."

Death's eyes flashed, and the corners of her mouth turned up, as if this was their private joke. "Yes, that is the irony. I said fuck no, and kicked the Devil out of my realm on his furry ass." Her eyes grew distant. "What I didn't know is that he had birthed a powerful demon. One that had a deep affinity with me. The Devil found a way to siphon off my power to them. Now, they control my realm, and I..." She snorted. "I'm a visitor. I can't even assume my proper form." 

"But you're still strong enough to make deals." Iris said, brow furrowed. "You made a deal with Asra to bring me back." At her side, she heard, felt, Asra's breath hitch in his throat. 

Death raised her brows. "That's the funny thing about the Arcana. We sometimes have difficulty understanding each other's power. The Devil was able to take away my ability to assume certain forms, my access to my realm, where I'm strongest, where the souls of the departed pass through on their way to their final destination, whatever it may be. What he didn't take, didn't understand, is that I hold every single soul that passes through my gates, no matter their fate. And I can send them back. I can choose who I give my affinity to." She reached up and gently stroked Iris's cheek, her fingertips warm against Iris's prickling skin. "That's what makes mortals so special. You are both the void, and the prism." 

"The void...and the prism?" Iris whispered, locking eyes with Death. She grinned, and in her other hand, summoned two crystals, a quartz and an obsidian. She held the clear quartz up to Iris's eye, gently shutting the other with her fingertips. In the sharp angles of the stone, Iris saw soft arcs of rainbow light. 

"All of us archetypes exist in each mortal. The same way that quartz can scatter the light into a rainbow, into infinite colors. This infinite potential is inside each of you." She unwrapped her hand around the obsidian, black like oblivion in her elegant fingers. "For so many mortals, the archetypes fall away even while they're children. They struggle to understand introspection, or authority, or change. For others, they lose all connection to the archetypes. They absorb the light." She closed her fingers around the stone. "The void." 

"If a mortal is lucky, they have a connection with one of the Arcana." Asra muttered at her side, his eyes brightening. 

"Correct." Death said quietly. "But some things reopen those affinities. Like...being reborn. Borrowing the body of an Arcana." She turned back to Iris. "Having not one, but two lovers willing to die for you. You become the prism. The light gathers in you, separates in you, and creates something entirely new. Something ancient and astonishing." 

"I don't want them to die for me." Iris said quickly, the heat rushing to her cheeks. "I don't need them to protect me." 

"Oh, child." Death murmured, with a coy tweak of a thick, dark brow. "Too late." She turned to Asra now. 

"Asra...are you ready to return Ilya's memories?" 

Iris wound her arm around Asra's waist as he tensed. "I want to." He murmured. "I don't know how. Not without..." His voice wavered. "When Iris regained her memories, she was in agony. Eventually I just... stopped trying. I had to wait for her to regain them on her own. I can't...I can't do that to Ilya, too." 

Death's lips raised into a half-smile. "Ilya's been ready for a long time, child." She flitted her black eyes to him. "Haven't you, Ilya? You've searched and searched for these memories. Chased them across the entire earthside plane." 

Julian didn't respond; Iris could feel the want surge through his body, and the fear. She wound her hand up his back, between his shoulderblades, rubbing gently. 

Death laid her hand on Julian's chest; with the other she twisted her fingers into a spiral, then snapped her fingers into her palm. The bright whites around them dissolved with what looked like the blurring of watercolors; suddenly, they were all standing in a dark, beautiful library, not unlike the library at the palace. Iris's heart swelled to bursting; she was overwhelmed by the room's aura, passionate, intelligent, driven, kind, the smell of the rum and the sea. Julian. Julian. But also...Asra's magic, blossoming gently through Iris, pulsing through her veins. His sensitivity, his guardedness. His pain. 

"Asra kept your memories so carefully, child." She ran her finger over the spine of one of the books; it glowed a bright white under her touch. "Safe here in the Magician's realm." Her eyes rose to Julian's, still vibrating in shock as he struggled to comprehend. "Don't ever forget what he did for you. Many of these memories..." she drew her hand away from the book, and Iris could see that her skin was blistered, raw, as if burned. "They are painful. Asra felt every single one." 

She turned to Asra now, the softest smile on her face. She gently touched the sodalite pendant around his neck; it glowed softly, imbued with white light. "Give this to him." She whispered. "And hold on tight, all of you." 

Iris saw Asra's hands shake as he lifted the rough leather lanyard over his head, hesitating only a moment as it dangled in front of his face, regarding it as it spun gently in the air. Iris wrapped her hands around Julian's waist, under his cloak, as Asra turned to him, their eyes meeting. Iris had no words for the emotions that passed between them, as Asra lowered the pendant around Julian's neck. With tears in his eyes, he wrapped his arms around Julian's neck and kissed him, deeply, sweetly, before burying his honeyed face in Julian's shoulder. 

At first, Iris thought it didn't do anything; for a dreadful moment, she was afraid this was a trick, a trap, a horrible joke. And then the first book slid from the shelf, unbound from any tether, and opened on its spine in the air in front of the three of them, pages shimmering softly, illuminated white. Iris felt Julian stiffen, and she gasped as his eyes glowed white, as Asra's eyes glowed white, as she was plunged into a swirling sea of memories, starting with the first, the very first...

Iris was then inundated with overlapping images and a cacophony of sounds; she, Julian, and Asra drinking at the palace with Nadia; Julian and her making music together on the veranda for Nadia, the smell of autumn leaves in the air; the four of them stargazing into the night sky, friends surrounding them as a meteor shower sparkled and arced above them – 

Then, there were memories of her performing with him, for Nadia, for Lucio; more of them playing together, the memory of her and him and Nadia in the parlor, the three of them writing and practicing together in the music room, drinking; days spent in the library with him and Asra, the surreptitious glances he stole of her, images of the soft space behind her ears, her clavicle, her wrists, the gentle swell of flesh on the underside of her arms. Conversations over dinner, ending in uproarious laughter, Nadia and Asra in the periphery – 

Now Iris saw so many memories of them kissing, embracing, making love: that first time in the rain, the time in the sun-dappled peony alcove, but also in their rooms in the palace, in her and Asra's old bed, in his Southside loft with Iris's back pressed up against the glass of a half-moon window, on the roof of her shop, her in his lap, as the sun rose behind them, and all the times, all the times, they just laid next to each other, held each other, limbs tangled, drifting off into sleep, feeling warm and safe and loved –

The mundane: the days spent at the clinic, in the dungeons, lessons with the other apprentices, late nights researching, meals shared, conversations about the day-to-day, kisses and touches and sweet nothings stolen in the liminal in-between. The quiet: little dates and dinners, deep conversations about their work, about magic, about literature and theatre and music, about the nature of people, of the Universe – 

The romantic: One day, her entire room filled with flowers, lilies and irises and peonies. The first time they said they loved each other. Julian trying, and failing spectacularly, to make her dinner at her shop. Julian teaching her how to dance, tango, foxtrot, samba, some wild, flirtatious number from Nevivon. A summer getaway, just the two of them, to some sweet little seaside town, a bungalow barely big enough for a bed right on the bone-white beach. 

The difficult: Iris sobbing in his arms, missing and mourning Asra's disappearance; disagreements about their work, about the goings-on in the dungeons, about how best to deal with Lucio, with Valdemar; Julian growing distant, withdrawing from her, not coming to bed, not joining her for dinner, too exhausted to engage when she confronted him –

And then...there were the final memories. Him finding her sick. Proposing to her. Caring for and tending to her, sweetly, tenderly, mournfully, even after she was moved to the dungeons, waiting for Death. The last of these memories were blurry for her, hazy with morphine, but still so sweet, so sad, full of images of him, his face, his touches, his embrace, and then – 

Iris's eyes flew open, tears streaming down her cheeks as she buried her face onto the other side of her darling's neck – there were still more books swirling around them, more memories, Asra and Julian's eyes still flashing, but they were not hers, not for her to see...every horrible thing that happened after her death, the pain, the mourning, the helplessness – 

Iris felt eyes watching them, and she turned to Death, realizing they had been joined. The sight was confusing, at first – a mirror image of the three of them, Death as Iris, her hands wound around the long, pale, elegant neck of an exact image of Julian, but the skin was scarred, horrifically bruised, a burial shroud wrapped around his hips, chest crossed over and over with red silk cord. His animal-black eyes glittered as he watched them, his chin on Death's head, his arms woven around her shoulders...at the Hanged Man's back, hands wrapped around his waist, cheek pressed against the pale muscle, was an image of Asra, but dressed magnificently, a white robe and a red, shimmering cloak, a purple silk band woven with silver and gold splicing through his wild hair, slithering purple snakes wound around his shoulders, his waist. His eyes, too, were black as an inkwell as he regarded the three of them with a small smile...

And, with a shudder, a series of soft thuds, all the books fell to the earth, on their spines, their pages blank. Julian staggered backwards, his breath coming to him in gasps, but Asra and Iris caught him, supporting his weight as his knees wobbled. His eye flew open, and his gaze was different somehow, clearer, deeper, as he turned to Iris, his lips parted, as if seeing her for the first time. 

"Iris..." He muttered. The tears were coming now. "Oh, Iris...my darling..." 

She sobbed, and they kissed, softly at first, then deeply, the memories they regained settling, the love they shared then surging back to them, no longer soft, lingering embers, but a flame, a hot, bright flame. When they pulled away, breathless, cheeks wet, Julian looked at her as if she wasn't real, he couldn't believe she was real, tracing a gloved finger over her cheek, her jaw. " _Draga moj. Svjetlo moga života_." He whispered, and she knew, she remembered. Light of my life. 

Julian turned to Asra now, and pulled him into a kiss, little tears dancing in the corners of his sweet, violet eyes, feeling so light, so unburdened, his heart no longer heavy with memories that were not his. Their kiss was shorter, but Iris could still feel a heat like a star's soft breath against her skin as they parted. "Asra..." he whispered, his voice shaky, lips trembling. "Thank you. I...thank you, and I forgive you." He pulled Asra closer to him, Asra's forehead pressed into Julian's collarbone, Julian's lips in Asra's hair. 

With both Asra and Iris clutching to Julian's chest, Asra turned to her, cupped a hand on her cheek and kissed her sweetly, their lips lingering as Julian inhaled the scent of Iris's hair deeply, his lips pressed against her temple. 

"I hate to interrupt such a tender moment..." Death murmured. "But we have more ground to cover. Ilya, child, how are you feeling?" 

Julian’s lips parted in thought before he spoke, looking straight into Iris's eyes. "I've never felt better." 

"Glad to hear it." Death's eyes sparked, and at her side the Magician smirked; the Hanged Man said nothing. "Because it gets darker from here."

The library dissolved around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: Dad & dad fighting is so hard to write but they have som eSHIT to work out so y’know. For the art.
> 
> Neruda poems are "Body of a Woman" and "We Have Lost Even". Read poetry, y’all. 
> 
> See y'all in part 3


	9. Death, Part 3: I Call Off The Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Dodos - The Season // James Blake, ROSALÍA - Barefoot In The Park**
> 
> _CW: MCD referenced, body horror/corpses/bones, allusions to suicide_

Iris smelled the beach before she saw it, the salt spray, the acrid scent of ash. She, Asra, and Julian were still clinging to each other, a sweet tangle of limbs, of cheeks and lips pressed together; when Iris opened her eyes, she saw that all three Arcana, the Magician, the Hanged Man, and Death, had followed, the two others flanking Death as she stood amongst the irregular mounds that dotted the ash-streaked shoreline. 

"Iris." Death said quietly. "Did Asra ever tell you that the two of you argued before he left Vesuvia?' 

Iris bit her lip; she gently extricated herself from Julian's grip, feeling Asra's hand tighten against her waist, even as she pulled away from him. 

"He didn't tell me." Iris said softly. "But I saw it. In a memory." Death's eyes softened, even as she regarded the two of them. Asra had stepped out of Julian's arms, too, a hand wrapping around Iris's waist, clutching her tightly to him. "Asra wanted to leave; it had gotten too dangerous in the palace. And I wanted to stay." Asra's fingers on her twitched, tightened, even as he said nothing.

Death's eyes sparkled. "That is true, in its way." She turned to Asra now, her eyes soft and full of pity. The Magician, at her side, looked straight at Asra, his eyes stony and sad, while the Hanged Man looked on dispassionately. "Asra...do you want to show Iris what happened?" 

Asra bit his lip, and met Iris's eyes; the emotions that passed through him frightened her, a primal fear, an unfathomable despair. Iris's hands flew up to his cheeks to catch the tears that fell from them, and then she heard the sound. 

From further down the shore, a howl, almost unearthly in its smothering misery. In her arms, Asra swallowed hard, and squeezed his eyes shut, as a figure emerged from the mist that choked the edges of the beach, sprinting, stumbling in the downy sand. It was Asra, the memory of him, his face contorted in despair; he clutched a weathered golden compass in his hands, he was searching, searching for something, something, on that beach. Iris felt a heaviness, a poison, surge through her bloodstream like mercury when she realized what it was. 

When he came to the mound of sand that separated the mortals from the Arcane, he fell to his knees, his hands shaking as the compass slipped through his fingers into the ash. Tears streamed freely down his face, his parted lips trembled with such force that it changed the course of his tears on the relief of his features, and his hands, his shoulders, shook, as he just stared, stared, disbelieving, at the mound in front of him. 

Then, then, with another guttural cry, he started digging with his bare hands, scraping and pulling the oily, ashen sand away in heavy, wet mounds, not bothering with his magic; he dug for a very long time, his nails breaking painfully, his muscles straining, stopping only to wipe the tears from his face, until his cheeks, his temples, his forehead, were streaked with soot and ash and sand. Faust emerged from his shirt, wrapping herself around his shoulders in an endless coil, a sweet ouroboros, attempting in to soothe him, to calm him, to no avail. 

When he found the first bone, Asra trembled in her arms; she clung to the tense muscles in his back just as Julian wrapped both of them in his embrace, pulling them into his chest, his large, gentle hand wrapping around Asra's head, fingers through his soft hair, stroking his scalp in gentle, calming motions. Asra was shaking, quivering, but he couldn't rip his eyes away from the memory as his former self touched the bone, immediately knowing, tossing it away. Iris saw now that his fingers were raw, bleeding, but he kept going, he kept going. 

He'd touch bone, and toss it aside. Touch bone, and toss it aside. Then, he found something that looked like a charred, deformed scapula; he cried out, loudly, his voice warped and animal as he held the bone to his lips, kissing it over and over, tears streaming down his face before he tenderly placed it aside. 

The remains must have been scattered, because all Asra found of her was the scapula, a humerus, a clavicle, a few ribs, a bit of spine. And then, and then...the final piece. Asra, fingertips raw and crimson running down to his palms, wincing with every movement, pulled a skull out of the sand, charred but perfectly formed, the mandible gone, ripped off, but the rest of the teeth somehow intact. He held it in both his hands, and retched with sobs, doubling over in his pain, before he pressed his lips softly against what would be the forehead, what would be the temples, the brows, the nose, the lips...

Iris could not hold Asra close enough to her as his memory form released a final, gut-wrenching scream, his face inches away from the skull, as the image faded from their view. Iris's entire body shivered, her voice useless in her throat. All she could do was kiss him, press her lips into his hairline, his face buried against her fragrant neck as fresh tears wetted her skin, his breath coming to him in ragged gasps. His worst memories were of literally digging up her grave. No doubt for the talismans, her remains, that would help him bring her back, in the realms of the darkest, most dangerous kinds of magic. An image flitted across her eyes, so quick she hardly registered it – her, standing in front of a gate, creamy stark-white marble, a voice, barely a whisper, calling her name from the other side...

It was many moments before Death spoke again, watching the three of them carefully. "Asra, child... do you remember the deals you made to bring Iris back?"

Iris rubbed Asra's back as his breath slowly evened, Julian's cheek, his warmth, pressed against Asra's crown, Iris's lips on his ear, whispering the softest, sweetest nothings in her lilting, crooning voice. There was a long, quivering silence before he spoke. "I made a deal with the Magician; he appealed to the Fool. They agreed to my terms. Half of my heart for Iris." 

Death pursed her lips. "Half of your heart for the Fool’s body, so Iris could throne to it. But you needed Iris, too, and for that, you needed to deal with me. Do you remember that?" 

Asra's eyes widened, his long eyelashes brushing against Iris's neck. "I...no.......yes. Yes." He straightened, turned to Death, his eyes wide. "I...?" He couldn't finish, his full lips parted around an unfathomable question, brows furrowed. 

The Magician raised his white eyebrows now. "Death told you she would let you have her, but she couldn’t let her go without marking her." He smirked, a strange facsimile of Asra's face, warped with something like sick amusement.

Death smiled widely now; Iris could see pointed canines peeking out of the corners of her own lips. "Dying changes things. You see the otherside, feel the release of the final sleep. It’s not like I chose to mark Iris. She was marked the moment she died. But of course, I knew Iris was special the moment I held her. So much power, so much compassion, so much pain...and then, Asra...you showed up begging for her, giving me my chance." She disappeared and reappeared instantaneously at Iris's side, her fingers ghosting over Iris’s sixth vertebrae; the magician felt something hot, searing, against her skin, making her cry out in pain. "How could I say no?”

She couldn't see it, but she felt the tattoo raise itself on the back of her neck, the numeral XIII, Death's number of the Tarot. Iris took a step back from Asra and Julian, not from revulsion, but from astonishment; she felt the full force of her affinity now, an additional pulse in her veins, cool and swimming. Was this what it felt like for Asra, to have the Magician's power surging through him? Iris felt soft, sensitive, but also powerful, overwhelmingly so. And then, the feeling faded, as quickly as it came on. 

"What does it mean?" Iris whispered, turning to Death. 

Death regarded Iris with a proud gaze. "It means that when I need to enter the mortal realm, I'll do it through you. The same way I do with anyone else with an accepting affinity." Death's face fell, stony now. "I've told you about the Devil's plans. He has put these plans in motion, and they will come to fruition if we..." she gestured to the Arcana behind her, the Magician and the Hanged Man, "...and our colleagues do not intervene. And for that, Iris, I will need your strength. I will need your body. I’ll need the Fool’s body." 

Iris took a deep breath, turning her hands over in front of her. Her aura shivered in her periphery, still the same shifting opal hue, but now undertinged with a deep purple, like a moonstone. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

Death raised an eyebrow. "No. Though...it will be much easier if you don't resist." 

Iris’s heart skittered with chill at the words, but still, she bit her lip in though, before turning to Asra. "Okay. Okay." She was still uncertain, but she understood, she understood, how Asra could make such a choice for her. For himself. 

Death smirked. "There's my girl." Her eyes flitted to the three of them now. "There's one more thing I want to show you all." 

From the mound, four femurs flew into her outstretched palm. The first of these, she took into her palms, and applied some force, not much. All three of them shook as the bone splintered in her hands with a sickening crack. 

"Alone..." Death whispered. "It's easy to break anything. Anyone." 

She took the three bones into her hands now, bundling them together. Iris knew that Death was an unstoppable Arcana, full of immense power, and yet, she could not break the three bones together, though they bent, cracked, splintered. 

"Your strength..." Death murmured, handing Asra the bundle of bones first. Hands shaking, body trembling like a leaf in the wind, Asra tried to break it, but failed. With tears in his eyes, he handed the bundle off to Julian, who bit his lip uncertainly. He, too, failed to break the bundle. Iris knew, even before he handed it to her, that she would not be able to bend it, let alone break it, but she tried, she tried, her muscles straining. Death grinned. 

"It's easy to break one, but two, or three...it becomes almost impossible. They protect each other. Cover weaknesses. Bolster strengths." There was the softest aura that spilled over Death as the realm around them shimmered. "Remember this as you move forward. Protect each other. Your love is your greatest strength." She grinned wildly, red and black eyes glittering. "This is the beginning." 

She touched Iris's cheek briefly, their eyes meeting. "I'll see you soon, child." And the realm vanished around them, plunging the three lovers into the sweetest darkness.

*******

Iris's dreams were strange; sand on her back, dark, cloudy skies, just beginning to streak with dawn's caress, swimming across her eyelids, chilly waves licking her feet, her legs, her hips, before two pairs of hands, one warm and soft, the other swathed in worn leather, pulled her from the surf...

Then, the rocking, the rhythm, her cheek laid against cool, heavily scented skin, warm hands still wrapped around her waist, a wet face, hot breath pressed into her back. She heard low voices, soft, comforting voices, both speaking to her and to each other, though she understand nothing as she drifted in and out of sleep. Then she was being carried in strong arms, like a child, her arms thrown over broad shoulders, a large hand on her back, another under her seat. More rocking, different this time, and then, and then...

The smell of home. Herbs, smoke, oranges, cinnamon, tea, all filled Iris's nostrils, making her hum just a little, even as the same strong arms carried her up the stairs; she could hear the creaking of every old step, the rustling of fabric as the curtain was carefully lifted away, the gentle puff as a fire was lit in their hearth. She was laid softly on her back in the bed, enveloped in cool silk sheets that still smelled of Asra, and of Julian... 

As she drifted, she heard more muttering, low and honeyed, the soft smell of incense floating through their tiny apartment, bergamot and olive oil, then silence, shuffling. Iris thought that maybe, maybe, she heard sweet sounds, muffled sounds, more voices...

Two warm, strong, muscled bodies joined her in the bed, their skin naked, damp, musky; they wrapped their arms around her, embraced her, their lips in her hair, on her neck, her shoulders, her cheeks; soon, their kisses slowed, and they both stilled, before Iris followed them into dreamless sleep.

*******

"She's not returning to the realm of the living anytime soon." Julian muttered as he tenderly extricated Iris's arms from his shoulders. They fell limply to the bed, one landing softly on her stomach, the other by her face on the pillow; she turned towards it, cooing softly, her fingers curling and brushing against her mussed hair.

Julian felt a rush of crushing affection, consuming him, overwhelming him, as fresh memories flooded through him. He had watched her sleep, just like this, during those endless numbered nights he'd lain awake at the palace, in this bed, in his own, with her beside him. If the punishment for his transgressions earthside was to watch Iris sleep for the rest of eternity, he would accept it gladly, gratefully. It would be more than he deserved. 

The sheets and blankets rose over her, Asra compelling them with his magic from across the room as he lit a cone in the incense burner; the soft scent of bergamot filled the apartment, and Iris hummed, curling a little more into the covers, burying her faced into the pillow. 

A warm hand fell on Julian's shoulder; Asra was handing him a mug of gently steaming tea, smelling of rose petals and chamomile, lavender maybe. Julian hadn't even heard Asra put the kettle on, but the hearth was roaring quietly, and the kettle hung on its cast iron hook, hissing sibilantly. Asra had his own mug in his hands; he sank noiselessly into one of the seats around the small dining table. He sighed heavily, exhaustedly, absentmindedly spinning the mug in his hands before taking a sip. Julian watched curiously as he settled into the chair across from him. 

For a very long moment, they were silent, as Julian waited for the tea to cool, as Asra drank, sipped, slowly, their eyes not meeting. It was Asra who broke the silence. 

"Ilya..." He began, pressing his lips together. His violet eyes were far away. "I'm so sorry. I...I made a choice for you, one that never should have even crossed my mind. I never...I never meant to keep Iris from you." He paused, took another sip of his tea, swallowed. "I can't make those lost years up to you." Tentatively, he met Julian's gaze, full lips quivering very slightly. 

Julian summoned a small smile, warm and empathetic. "I meant what I said; I forgive you, Asra. You made the best decision you could at the time." He said quietly. "I can't...I can't imagine what it must have been like. To...oh, Arcana. To find me." His breath hitched, and for a long while, his words failed him. 

Asra waited, patiently, tracing the rim of his cup, his eyes never leaving Julian. He shuddered when he spoke next. "When you said you took my memories of Iris, I knew there must be some that were unhappy. But I didn't realize... I didn't know..." 

Asra's hand closed around Julian's on the table. "We were in pain. We both spiraled. I had a chance to mourn her. You..." He sighed. "I took that away from you." 

Julian's brow furrowed pensively, sadly. "But did you really mourn her? Or were you focused on bringing her back? I remember - I remember that skull we saw...in back room. So many things we tried."

Asra's face fell. "I...I don't know. I think about that sometimes." He glanced back over his shoulder, at Iris on the bed, sleeping soundly now, chest sweetly rising and falling. "If I had let myself mourn...would she still be in Death's arms? I don't know...I don't know what's in store for her. Sometimes it feels like...like I sold her for my own comfort. To avoid my own pain." His eyes were starting to mist over in earnest now. 

Julian squeezed his hand. "You did it for her, not just for you. I know it's hard for you to open up to people. Once you do...you're all in. You gave half of your heart for Iris. That wasn't selfish." 

Asra turned back to Julian, regarding him openly. "When I lost Iris, I felt like I lost my mind. I lost one of the only people earthside who cared if I was dead or alive." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Sometimes...sometimes I wish I was more like you, Ilya. More giving. More kind. You give to anyone who asks of you. You stayed, for the greater good. You care for people, even if you don't know them. Even if they don't deserve it." 

Julian's breath hitched, and he lowered his gaze to his cooling tea. "Everyone deserves to be cared for. To be loved. No matter who they are, what they've done." 

Asra smiled softly. "Even you?" 

Julian looked as if he had been struck across the face, flabbergasted. When he didn't respond, Asra unloosed his hand from Julian's and cupped his cheek tenderly. "I saw you give to people who took advantage of you. Especially after Iris died. You searched for love in the worst places. In...in me. I couldn't care for you the way you deserved." 

"It was what I deserved." Julian said, before he could stop himself. "I let her die." Asra shook his head sadly, one tear glinting in the corner of his eye. 

"You deserve the kindest, warmest love. When I see Iris with you...when I saw the two of you together in your memories...you were right. You were better for her, and I was jealous. She was better for you. She gave you everything you needed, and you gave her everything she deserved." 

"But she missed you every day, Asra." Julian said quietly. "You were her first. She burned for you."

Asra's eyes softened. "So maybe she wants both of us. She needs both of us, just like Death said. Hasn't she made that clear? She can love us both. Her heart...I'm amazed at how much it holds." 

Julian's hand covered Asra's, still on his cheek. "It's your heart, Asra. You can love like that, too."

There was another heavy, heated silence – and then, they leaned into each other, their lips brushing, soft and warm, before they kissed. Their tongues found each other, searching, searching; they could taste each other's desire, but there was something more, something new, something gentle and searing, precious and painful. Asra's other hand, still hot from the mug, found Julian's other cheek, pulling him even closer over the table, as Julian's hands traced the swells of Asra's arms, grasping at the soft, amber skin of his wrists, his forearms. 

They kissed, and kissed, and kissed, as if tasting each other for the first time; they pulled away only when they were gasping softly for breath. Without a word, they moved to the floor, careful to be quiet, to not disturb Iris's sleep; for a moment, they fumbled as they knelt, uncertain, before Asra looped his hand around Julian's waist and slowly leaned him down onto his back, with Asra laying on his chest. Julian wrapped his hands around Asra's waist, feeling the taut muscle under his linen shirt. 

They were taking off each other's clothes, their lips still pressed together, their kisses needful and delirious as they fumbled with buttons and clasps. Shirts first, Julian lifting the soft linen over sculpted, firm shoulders, Asra ripping open the few buttons that held Julian's impossibly loose shirt together. He startled, a moment, to find the revolver; he skillfully unwound it from Julian’s chest, placing it and its holster carefully on the table. Then they were skin on skin, warm on cool, honey and cream. 

Asra’s lips found the space on Julian's neck that drove him wild, just below his ear, and sucked gently, making him groan, choked-off, desperate but quiet. Julian carded his fingers through Asra's pillowy hair, clawing his shoulders, down his rippling back, as Asra's clever fingers worked open the long row of buttons on Julian's leather pants, from his navel to his sacrum. Julian's hands crawled to Asra's waistband and pushed his soft, slinky trousers down from his hips, and when Asra finally worked all the buttons open, Julian lifted his hips up, pressing their naked chests together so Asra could free him, kicking off his own pants, and they were totally vulnerable to each other. 

Asra reached down and grasped Julian's erection, covering it with oil from his magic-slick hand, making Julian moan softly and throw his head back against the threadbare rug beneath them. Asra pressed his lips into his neck again, this time into the quiet space, the deep shadowy space, between his arching, beautiful collarbones. Julian was already so turned on that he was grinding his hips against Asra's: hot, velvety skin against hot, velvety skin. Asra moaned through closed lips, closing his eyes, as he grasped his own cock, quickly and deftly covering it, before rearing up just a little so he could pump his hips against Julian's, increasing the friction as they frotted against each other. 

"Fuck..." Julian whispered, his breath hitching in his throat. "Asra..." He grasped each of Asra's hips, not guiding, but groping, his breath spinning up hotter and faster as he arched his back, pressing their pelvises together. Asra planted each hand on a strong shoulder, and they moved, they moved, slowly, the way their bodies rubbed against each other's delicious, the little sounds they made musical, their heat beautiful and sweet. 

Time both stretched and shortened; the closer and closer they both grew, the more time seemed to warp as they savored the movements, the sounds, the kisses, the touches, of the other. Asra had no idea how long they had moved together when Julian bit his lip hard, panting, grasping harder at Asra's ass, moaning, "I need more...please..." 

Shifting slightly, Asra reached down and wrapped a lubricated hand around both of their cocks. His fingers came nowhere close to closing, but he pressed the two of them together as they slipped through his grasp and their hips moved, their cocks slid, against each other. Julian groaned at the new pressure, the extra slip, the added texture; he increased his speed slightly, grunting as he chased his release, as Asra watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, lips parted, panting, his heart pounding. 

Julian arched his back wildly and grimaced, trying to stay quiet as he jerked his hips upward erratically. Asra knew Julian's body well enough to recognize that he was about to orgasm; he leaned down and wrapped his lips around Julian's tip just as the other groaned and came into Asra's warm, willing mouth. Asra hummed with delight, savoring the heat, the distinct flavor; he sucked and sucked, wanting to taste, to swallow all of it. Once satisfied, he released Julian with a gentle pop of his lips, looking up at him with heavy lidded eyes, his own cock throbbing with want. 

Julian didn't hesitate, even as his head was still spinning; he sat up and gently pushed Asra onto his back, kissing him heatedly before dragging his lips, his teeth down the firm landscape of his amber chest. Large hands and clever fingers worked over Asra's erection in long, loving strokes, cool fingertips pressing into his perineum; they were quickly joined by soft lips, a warm tongue. 

Asra groaned, loudly; he couldn't help it. Julian was so good, so good, at sucking his cock; he felt the gentle nip and tug of teeth against his flesh, slippery tongue swirling and running up and down the length of his shaft, his tip pushing again and again against the back of a hot throat, making Julian gag, swallow, the muscles gently caressing silky skin, sensitive nerves. It wasn't long before Asra's mind was blanking and he was scraping his fingernails through Julian's hair, bucking his hips up against Julian's mouth, moaning his name into the morning as he came. 

Julian milked Asra for every last drop before coming up for air up with a gasp, licking his lips. Slowly, he crawled forward, and they kissed, their tongues swirling, they were tasting each other's ecstasy as they came back earthside together, their panting breaths subsiding, racing hearts settling. 

" _Slatki med_." Julian muttered against Asra's cheek as Asra ran his hand softly through Julian’s silky, messy hair, silty from the Lazaret. He turned and dropped a kiss, long and lingering, on Julian's lips in response. 

"The sun's up." He whispered against the kiss. The lemon light was slanting through the north-facing window, and they could hear the gentle sounds of the market. 

Julian groaned a little. "I'm exhausted. " He muttered, leaning his forehead into Asra’s. Asra could feel the other's weariness radiating from him, his gray eye slightly unfocused, still bleary from their lovemaking.

"Luckily, there's a warm bed and a beautiful woman waiting for us." Asra murmured. They kissed one last time, embracing each other, before they slowly disentangled their limbs and staggered into the bed, where Iris was sleeping soundly on her side. 

Julian wrapped his arm around her, his chest to her back, dropping soft kisses on her shoulders, her neck, her hair; Asra gently rubbed his nose against hers, their foreheads touching, lips kissing, as he laid down beside her – instinctually, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him a little closer to her, even in her sleep. Asra's hands found Julian's waist, his back, and the three of them, feeling safe, feeling comforted, feeling not alone, drifted into sweet, satisfied sleep.

*******

Iris was warm, so warm, when she woke, with both of her lovers’ bodies pressed against her, the winter sunshine slanting through the open windows above the bed. Judging by the light, the sounds wafting up from the market, it must have been late, nearly noon, though the market seemed to be much busier than usual. Iris sat up a little, parting the gauze canopy and peering out of the open window.

The streets were crowded, nearly boiling with people, even here on the backstreets; Iris shuddered to think what the bazaar looked like. She wondered for a moment why it was so busy, and then she remembered. The masquerade. The first night was tomorrow. January 13th...

A set of long, graceful fingers threaded their way up Iris's waist. "Come back..." Julian whispered, his lips ghosting over the high waistband of her arabesque pants. 

Iris closed the curtains with her magic as she sank back into the purple sheets, muffling the sounds of the market a little. She settled in Julian's outstretched arms, nuzzling her face into his neck; she noticed two dark love marks, one below his ear, the other right where the muscles of his neck dipped, directly below where the mark of the bargain would have been. She laughed lightly, tracing her fingers over them. 

"You bruise so easily now." She teased. "We'll have to be gentler with you."

Julian's fingers were at her back, slowly working open the clasps of her bodice. "I've always bruised like a peach. The gift just healed them quickly." He deftly unclipped the last fastener, and, tenderly, he pulled the fabric from her shoulders, his ardent gaze roving over her chest. "I missed them, actually. Both you and Asra would leave me covered in marks. I felt claimed, spoken for. Wanted." He lowered his head, brushing his lips against Iris's collarbone as he worked his fingers into her waistband. 

Iris bit back the little sadness that rose in her throat. "So...don't be gentle?" She murmured, as Julian introduced tongue to her skin, licking a long line from her clavicle to her sternum to where her breasts met, while he traced the swells of her hips, her ass. 

"Gentle is nice sometimes." His breath was hot against her chest as he kissed her breasts; he pushed down the waist of her pants, and Iris shivered a little at the feeling of the fabric against her skin as she shimmied out of them. They were both naked now, Julian's cool hands running over her back as they pressed into each other, Iris's arms around his neck as his lips found her nipples, kissing, kissing, so softly, so sweetly. 

"I like gentle, too." Iris cooed, pressing her lips into Julian's hair, inhaling his deep fragrance, the salt scent of the sea even deeper after their adventure yesterday. 

With a tender tug, Julian rolled Iris onto her back, his long, lissome body arched over hers, mouth finding hers for a luscious, lingering kiss. "In all of the memories I recalled...those are my favorites." He breathed against her lips. "The gentle ones. The sweet ones." 

Iris smiled, sighed, running one hand over the back of Julian's neck, up into his wild auburn hair, the other pushing away his eyepatch. "Then let's be sweet to each other." 

Julian just smiled, his generous, genuine smile, before kissing Iris again, and again, and again, their tongues just touching, sharing delicious little caresses. Then Julian trailed his lips across Iris's jaw, making to move down her body, but Iris guided him back up with a tug of his hair, nudging his muscular neck with her teeth before biting softly and sucking, drawing out a quiet crow of delight. 

When Iris pulled away, there was a mark, darker than either of Asra's, ringed with little teethmarks. She kissed it, satisfied, and kissed Julian's parted lips, letting her hand slide down from his hair to the back of his neck, his spine. "Mine." She whispered, smiling against his lips. 

He groaned, voice hot and shuddering, and kissed her again, deeply. "Yours. Always yours." 

Iris rubbed the back of his neck as he continued his interrupted descent, dispersing kisses over her shoulder, her chest, her breasts, her ribs. She moaned as he sucked and bit the tender flesh of her navel, exploring her, seeing the beautiful little secrets of her body he hadn't marveled before his memories returned: the constellation of moles around her ribs, her stomach; the pale stretchmarks that adorned the fullness of her hips; the delicious swells, dips, and dimples of the softness swaddling her belly. He took his time, kissing, touching, adoring every inch of her, that by the time he reached her sex, ran his elegant hands down her thighs, parted them delicately, she was wet and blooming. 

He paused and inhaled her fragrance deeply, his nose buried in the dark hair that covered her mound, before dipping forward, parting her plush labia with his hot, clever tongue, swirling it slowly and lazily around her swollen clit. 

Iris cried out through bitten lips, arching her back slightly; next to them in the bed, Asra stirred with a little grunt at the sound. Julian, without pausing, glanced at him, then at Iris, a smirk snaking across his lips as he increased his pressure slightly, laving her with the long flat of his tongue, and Iris moaned quietly in return. 

Asra, still hazy-eyed, rolled over to face them, his sleepy gaze roving over the scene they cut together: Iris’s back arched, her fingers raking through Julian’s hair, his face between her spread legs, looking at her as if she were the sun. 

“You started without me...” He murmured, drowsily, a wry smile pulling at his full lips; he reached forward and ran one hand over Iris’s breast, tracing the areola with two fingers, making her cry out again. 

Julian let out a satisfied sound, part hum, part groan, watching Asra touch Iris; he increased his speed, tongue slipping against her wetness as he flicked her clitoris in quick succession, just as Asra leaned forward and latched his mouth around Iris’s nipple, suckling her, his hand swimming across her chest to cup her other breast. 

Iris melted at their attentions, moaning with bliss; one hand left Julian’s hair to touch Asra’s naked shoulder, the other gripping a little harder in tousled auburn hair, earning her a quiet, pleased grunt. Asra moved over to Iris’s other breast, his tongue tracing the outline, the heavenly, fragrant place under the breast’s swell, before circling up to the hardened nipple, this time dragging his tongue over it before breathing in sharply, making Iris’s skin prickle with goosebumps as chilly air rushed past.

Iris lifted up her legs and planted her feet on Julian's back, guiding him to a delectable new angle; he responded by grasping greedily at the underside of her thighs, palming the soft flesh, as he changed from flicking back to long, lapping motions, looking up at her through his lashes to watch her move and twitch. She was close, he knew, by the way she was digging her heels into the muscle below his shoulderblades, her toes curling, her back arching wildly. 

Asra knew, too, and moved from her breasts to her neck, kissing her over and over, dragging his teeth across the sensitive skin, whispering, "Gods, I could watch the two of you fuck all day...you're so fucking gorgeous, Iris...and Ilya, sweet, pretty Ilya, knows just what you like, just how to make you come undone.." Iris whimpered, and orgasmed, like putty in their hands, circling her hips against Julian's slowing tongue as she bucked. 

Julian kissed his way back up to Iris's mouth as she returned to him, and their tongues melted together as Iris wrapped her arm around Julian's shoulder. She reached out to touch Asra, but he pulled away gently, eyes dancing, pupils dark and stormy with lust. 

"I just want to watch..." He purred, pillowing his head on his elbow as he palmed himself. "...for now, at least." 

Iris shivered and Julian groaned through bitten lips, and they turned their attentions back to each other's kisses. Julian pressed his hips into Iris's, his hot length cleaving her vulva; they ground against each other, Iris wrapping her legs up around Julian's waist and moaning each time his warm head rubbed against her clitoris, still sensitive from orgasm, grunting in frustration each time he caught a little where she bloomed, tugging so deliciously. 

"Ilya..." She panted, placing both of her hands on his chest and casting the barrier spell. "Please..." 

"Not yet..." He whispered, lifting her hands above her head, intertwining his fingers with hers, resting his weight in his elbows as he continued to grind into her. When he finally, finally caught again on her sex, he paused, mouth wide and wanting, before slipping just inside her with a definite little thrust. 

Iris gasped, and groaned, "You're as big a tease as Asra..." 

Asra chuckled, and Julian grinned wickedly. "Is that a challenge?" He simpered as he pumped so shallowly into her that his hips barely moved, but Iris felt it, pressing teasingly against her walls, all her nerves firing, screaming for more, to be filled all the way. 

"Ilya...please, darling...I need…" She begged after a few of these tiny movements, digging her heels into the space above his hips. He obeyed her, let her guide him with a wanton moan, his own voice spilling from him in a satisfied groan as he sheathed himself inside her. 

And then, it was just the two of them moving together, making love, their movements sweet and languid, their lips searching and meeting needfully, their fingers intertwined and squeezing. With Iris's legs around Julian's waist, he was going so deep, so deep, they were so close to each other, but still Iris wanted more, more, it was never enough; she wanted to keep him there and keep him safe and happy forever, the way he looked at her now, like he had never been in pain...

When she came again, tendrils of heat snaking through her core to her fingertips, her toes, muscles clamping down hard, making her legs shake, she wanted to cry with happiness as Julian called out her name in her ear and filled her up with his warmth. 

She hardly had a chance to kiss him down from his high before an amber hand fell on Julian's shoulder; two mismatched gray eyes, cloudy with pleasure, with release, met large purple eyes, blown wide and wild with lust, before tawny full lips pressed into pale, panting ones. Asra gently pushed Julian off of Iris and onto his back in the bed next to her. 

Asra was poised over Iris now, giving her a front row seat to the lean, compact churn of his chest, his gorgeous shoulders, his sturdy legs. He straddled her, his warm fingers tracing over the hilly landscape of her body, her heaving chest, looking at her as if she were the most precious thing that existed. His hands came to rest right above the swell of her hips, grasping tightly, and the shadowy muscles of his back rippled as he lowered himself to Iris's sex. He ran his tongue over her entire slit before planting his lips and sucking where she blossomed, pulling Julian's cum and her slip into his mouth with his plunging, searching tongue. 

Iris moaned, and grabbed one of his hands on her hips, their fingers interlacing. She felt a shift beside her as Julian rolled over onto his side, watching Asra with lidded eyes and parted lips; now he was the one to play with Iris's breasts while Asra pleasured her, massaging and groping the sweet swells, fingertips expertly teasing and rolling her hardening skin. 

Asra groaned as he tasted their sex, nearly overwhelmed with his desire, thumbs digging into Iris’s hipbones as he pulled away with a soft kiss; the hand that was not in Iris’s slunk down her thigh, to her vulva, fingers tracing the slick skin before he inserted two fingers into her, rubbing his thumb against her clit. 

Iris groaned, then giggled wildly as her toes curled again, her body now so primed for orgasm that she could already feel the heat simmering again in her belly, her hips bucking against Asra’s hand, as he curled his fingers against her sweet spot. 

“Oh, Iris...” He whispered as he alternated kisses up inside of her thighs, never breaking his pace, as she cried out again. “You’re so beautiful, so wild… you make me so wild...” His lips found her mound and replaced his thumb, sucking tenderly on her clitoris. This, combined with his fingers, Julian’s hands...she came a third time with a soft moan, her legs and shoulders shaking as she shattered and was sewn back together. 

Gentle hands, strong arms, wrapped around her, and she was pulled upright, into Asra’s lap, his honeyed lips falling all over her collarbone, her chest, her neck; she looked down at him, his sparkling purple eyes, so full of devotion, as she wrapped her arms around his muscled shoulders, clutching to his unbelievably beautiful skin. He pressed his lips into hers, and they kissed as she straddled his crossed legs, his hands winding their way down her smooth back to her ass. 

They kissed and kissed, Iris tasting herself and Julian on his tongue as they opened their mouths and let each other in. She bit his lip and dragged her nails a little across his skin as she pressed her hips into his, his cock hot and hard against her. He didn’t tease her, casting the barrier spell and then guiding himself into her with a skillful roll of his hips, his breath hitching as Iris lowered herself onto him in one slow, fluid motion, pressing her lips against his forehead as she rocked her pelvis against his. 

He moaned against her neck, soft, warm lips pressed against her skin. “My heart...oh, my heart...” he uttered like a prayer with each rolling buck of her hips, his hands moving up to the small of her back, pulling her even closer, so their chests were pressed against each other, as much of their skin touching as possible. Iris could feel his racing heartbeat, the same as hers, always, always, under his skin, the muscle, the bone. She remembered what he had given up for her, and she clutched him even closer to her and traced her fingers under his chin, angling his face up so she could kiss him, again, again.

Their pace was slow and rhythmic, but they had time, so much time; Iris wanted to hold on to Asra forever, to protect him, to keep him like this, his eyes screwed shut and his lips parted around a moan, his voice so sweet, so deep with pleasure, as he clung to her; she wanted to keep his heart from ever breaking again, for him to always feel this warm, this safe, this wanted. When Asra finally came, Iris only moments behind him, his choked cries of ecstasy sounded in her ear as he buried his face in her neck; he whispered, “I love you, my heart, I love you...” again and again as she came, as he came down. 

Iris kissed his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his chin, before gently extricating herself from him; he wrapped his arms around her back and lowered her into the bed, dropping a kiss on her breastbone before settling next to her on his side, fingers tracing up her sides and her navel. 

On her other side, Julian lay panting on his back, his cheeks, neck, and shoulders flushed, his lips parted and his eyes fervent as he regarded the two of them, clutching one of the rags Iris kept in her bedside table over himself; she realized that she and Asra hadn’t been the only ones who’d come. 

“Oh, darling...” Iris said, her voice giggling and lilting. “So thoughtful...” 

Julian’s cheeks reddened even more, and he smiled sheepishly. “Erm, sorry. The mess is the worst part. I thought...” 

“Don’t apologize. That’s basically what they’re there for.” Asra said sweetly, running his hand over Iris’s stomach; she felt the savory, slippery stickiness inside her evaporate, sent off into the ether. His eyes sparkled mischievously as they flitted up to Julian. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” 

They leaned over Iris and shared a long, deep kiss; Julian pulled away rather reluctantly. “Uh, I should, er...I should clean up.” He swung his long legs over the side of the bed and stood, crossing the small apartment in only three strides to the water closet by the stair’s landing.

Asra nuzzled his downy head into Iris’s shoulder. “Did you sleep well? We could hardly rouse you on the way here.” 

Iris sighed. “Like Death.” 

Asra snorted quietly, and Iris realized what she said. Her fingers flew back and traced the back of her neck; the skin was still hot and raised, tender under her touch. 

Asra’s eyes softened as he watched her. “You always wanted a tattoo.”

“I did?” Iris said, her brows furrowed as she turned to him. 

He nodded gently. “You had all these ideas, asked me to draw things for you. We never had the money when we were younger, and then when we had the money, our palace stipends...we didn’t even think about it. We were too busy.” 

He stooped to kiss her shoulder. “You wanted a Neruda line here. ‘Every day you play with the light of the Universe.’” He kissed her ribs, just behind the swell of her breasts. “Here, you wanted a tiny whitewinter lily. Not an iris. You thought it was too obvious.” He took her forearm now, kissing the inside of it tenderly, trailing up to her elbow. “And here...you wanted **the World**. It was one of your favorite cards then.” 

“It still is.” Iris whispered. “I still get her often when I read for myself.” 

Asra smiled fondly. “It was the future card you drew the first time you read, all those years ago.” His face fell a little. “You drew **Death** then, too. And **the Fool**.”

“Then the Universe has been weaving together this tapestry for a long time.” Iris mused, pressing her cheek against Asra’s. They were silent for a little while, as their chests rose and fell together. “I don’t blame you, you know. When I saw the memory of you on the beach...I understood. I wanted to do anything to stop your pain. I would have died to make it stop.” 

“Ironic.” Asra said quietly, and Iris snorted softly, but continued. 

“An affinity with an Arcana is a gift and a curse. I’ve always had a connection to Death. If it were me...making the choice for myself, to stop your heartbreak...I wouldn’t even have to think about it.” She brushed a soft curl out of his violet eyes. “I’d have made that trade in a heartbeat.” 

Asra stroked her cheek, eyes soft and sad. “It’s still a choice I made for you. A choice we’ll both have to pay for someday.” 

“That’s true.” Iris said quietly. “But we won’t face those consequences alone. We have each other. We have Julian.” 

“That’s right.” He said softly, kissing the corner of her lips. “We all have each other.” 

There was a sudden crash that shocked both of them out of their moment. Neither of them had heard Julian exit the water closet, and now, he was struggling to catch the pots and pans falling out of the cupboard over their kitchenette, having upset the precarious stack trying to extract a frying pan. 

“I...I thought I’d make breakfast.” He stammered. 

“ _Ohhh_ , no you’re not.” Asra said, sitting up and swinging his legs off the side of the bed in one fluid movement. “Last time you tried to cook, you nearly burned the shop down.”

Iris sat up on her elbows and watched with amusement as Asra crossed the room in two bounding strides, practically yanking the pan out of Julian’s hands. “That bad, huh?” She giggled.

Julian pinked and lunged for the pan; he almost got it, his reach much longer than Asra’s, but Asra levitated the pan well above both of them. “He tried to cook eggs with the stove salamander roaring, and then he walked away from them. I was scrubbing the pan for days; it took three smudgings to get the smell out of the apartment.” 

“Let met help, at least.” Julian murmured, pink deepening to red. 

“I was homeless once. I’d rather not be again.” Asra teased, his eyes sparkling as he dropped a playful kiss on Julian’s nose. Under the counter beneath them, the runebox opened, and Asra shuffled through it. “Not that there’s much here to make.” 

Iris smirked and stood, reaching for the short, soft, gray and cream tie-dyed robe hung on a set of hooks by the bed, shrugging it over her shoulders, before grabbing Asra’s, a long satin thing in a deep royal blue, the hem embroidered with red roses, whitewinter lilies, and pale blue forget-me-nots. There was another robe in the back of the wardrobe, one that she always assumed was Asra’s, but now, as she pulled it out, running her fingers over the deep red flannel, she realized it must have been Julian’s, left here years ago. 

She crossed the kitchen, standing on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on Julian’s cheek as she handed him the robe. “You can make the coffee?” She said quietly, pointing to the other cupboard. “There’s a Franc press. The beans might be a little stale, though.” She felt a little pang as she joined Asra at the runebox, resting her chin on his shoulder as she draped the robe over his back. 

It had been so long since she or Asra had stayed in the shop that their larder was pretty much bare; a few jars of preserved tomatoes and cucumbers, olives, jam, some old cheese, suspension rune still glowing. 

“We might have to go to the market.” Iris muttered, pursing her lips. 

Asra leaned into her, his cheek pressed against hers. “We could get that bread you like...we probably should head back to the palace soon, anyway.” He straightened, closing the runebox. “We didn’t leave word with anyone where we were going. I imagine Nadia and Portia are in a froth...it would be cruel to worry them any more.” 

Iris opened her mouth to speak when there was a soft knock on the threshold. “Are ya decent enough?” A loud, lilting woman’s voice called through the apartment. Iris laughed, and pulled her robe closer across her breasts as she bounded to the door, flinging her arms around Aster, who was carrying a bundle of groceries in under one arm. 

Aster’s eyes twinkled as her gaze fell on Asra and Julian over Iris’s shoulder, Julian now lounging comfortably in one of the seats at the table, his long legs stretched out in front of him, Asra leaning on his elbows on the counter, his robe falling a little off his shoulder. “I heard te tree of you gettin’ up in each other’s guts when I came t’open up shop, and I knew your pantry was pretty lackin’. It sounded like ya all were workin’ up a appetite.” 

Iris and Julian blushed a little while Aster laid out the groceries; Asra seemed wholly unperturbed. She had brought them fresh bread (a loaf of flaky white Umbrian bread and Iris’s favorite spiced pumpkin), as well as milk, eggs, bacon, leafy winter greens, and – earning her a comical relieved sigh from Julian – fresh coffee beans. 

“Oh, I can work with this.” Asra grinned, already stemming the greens with his magic as he pulled one of the jars of tomatoes out of the runebox. “Aster, you’re welcome to breakfast, too, if you'd like.” 

“Nah, I already ate, but tank ye, luv.” She winked as the three of them. “Besides, someone has to mind te shop, and it might as well be t’ one responsible adult.” She tweaked Iris’s nose. “See ya tonight.” 

Iris’s mouth twisted in confusion, and she noticed both Julian and Asra’s postures change, sharpen in surprise. “I will?” Iris asked, one brow twitching up curiously. 

“Ahhh hahaha...Dara n’ I are coming back to the palace tonight. We’ve the day off from d’ inn tomorrow. Thought we’d start partyin’ early.” Aster recovered from her fumble, a wide grin framing the gap in her teeth, but Iris, sensing something was off, dipped in; Aster was hiding the truth. Not maliciously, but suspiciously all the same. 

Iris let it go, squeezing her friend’s shoulder and smiling, before Aster descended the stairs to open up the shop. 

“Heart, I could use your help.” Asra called gently. He pushed the jar of tomatoes to her as he diced the greens and some of the olives now; the bacon was already sizzling in the pan, the salamander stoked and flaming. 

Soon, they had a hearty, spicy tomato stew on, spiced with gallipoli pepper, cumin, and pimenton, chopped greens swirled through and slowly wilting; Asra dropped several eggs into the stew and covered it so the eggs could steam and set. Julian procured the coffee; Iris delighted to taste that he had spiced it with freshly ground cardamom, though he left her to sweeten hers herself, his own cup black as the void. 

They chatted and joked as they cooked, Asra guarding the kitchen from Julian, who kept trying to sneak in to help; at one point, Asra brandished a bread knife at Julian while slicing the Umbrian loaf for toast, which ended in the two of them play sword-fighting and Iris howling laughing into her coffee from the little table. 

It wasn’t long before Asra was serving the shakshuka over toast alongside a few rashers of bacon, the eggs impeccably poached, whites set and yolks deliciously runny. Iris’s stomach growled at the sight of it, making Julian chortle kindly, Asra smile fondly. 

They ate, then dressed; Asra and Iris in fresh clothes from their wardrobe, a cream-colored button-up midi dress with fluttering, pleated sleeves for Iris, Asra in a low-slung sky blue cotton shirt, a shibori-dyed scarf, and brown leather pants. Asra expertly magicked the salt and sand from Julian’s clothes in their tiny rooftop garden while Julian finished the dishes; the doctor dressed again in the high-waisted leather leggings, the loose, untucked shirt, before swinging his heavy cloak over his shoulders, meeting Iris’s eyes before grinning raffishly at her, fixing his eyepatch back over his crimson eye. 

Asra stowed the pumpkin bread in his satchel and thanked the stove salamander, who happily belched a little cloud of smoke. The three of them swept down the stairs; there were a few customers in the shop, browsing and chatting with Aster, and Asra was sucked in polite conversation with one of the regulars, checking in on a cure he and Iris had concocted for their colicky newborn a few weeks ago.

Julian hung back, watching as Iris rummaged through the incense, selecting a few cones of white copal, before moving to the candles behind the counter, bumping hips playfully with Aster before pocketing three white, sage-scented tapers. 

“What’s all that for?” Julian murmured as she returned to him, winding a hand around her waist. 

Iris craned up to peck him on the lips. “Nothing to worry your pretty head about.” She murmured, smiling against his lips, before she caught eyes with another customer, a woman who was about eight months pregnant. The woman beamed as Iris approached her, and they embraced; the woman put Iris’s hand on her stomach, and she felt the baby kick with a very faint blush rising on her cheeks. Iris chatted animatedly, warmly, with the glowing woman; she tweaked an eyebrow after the patron said something, and leaned to Aster over the counter, pointing to a salve in an airtight tin that she pressed into the woman’s hand, waving off the charge. 

Asra and Iris said their good-byes to their customers, and, the three of them stepped out into the market streets. Seeing the crowds, Julian wrapped his hand around Iris’s waist, pulling her a little closer, and Asra, with a knowing smile, intertwined his fingers around Iris’s. 

Together, the three of them disappeared into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: Neruda poem is "Every Day You Play".
> 
> Hopefully I spell temperance right because I always want to spell it with an extra e. Temp.rence. Help. 
> 
> byyeeeee


	10. Temperance, Part 1: Human Heart, Human Flaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Troye Sivan - My My My!**
> 
> _CW: sexual debut/first time_

“I think you’re chasing a dead end, my heart.” Iris said quietly, thumbing gently through Asra’s copy of _The Arcana: Rituals, Summons, and Covenants_. Asra was sprawled out on the guest room bed beside her, almost hidden in a fortress of books on the Arcana, one particular tome on the Devil Arcana splayed open in front of him, the rolling script almost impossible to read. “I don’t think this ritual would achieve what Death said the Devil wants.” 

Asra and Iris had been holed up in the guest room all afternoon researching how to stop Lucio’s resurrection, at Asra’s insistence. As soon as they had waltzed into the palace, just after lunch was wrapping up, Portia had descended on them, Nazali at her shoulder, twisting Julian’s ear painfully and swearing up a storm in Nivenese for making her worry. Once Portia had her fill, Nazali swept Julian away in a storm of colorful Prakran to finalize their contingency plans; Iris and Asra hardly had a moment to kiss him good-bye. 

Now, Asra laid his head on one of the pages of the book in front of him. “I just can’t find a ritual that would merge the realms of the Arcana with the mortal realm. It seems impossible, what the Devil is trying to do.” 

“Yes, it does.” Iris said, thumbing again through the incredibly long section of covenants that could be struck with the Devil. “But all of these are focused on the mortal side of the bargain. We don’t see what the Devil gains, aside from sowing chaos.” 

Asra sighed, and tossed the heavy book aside. “This is getting us nowhere.” 

Iris closed the book in front of her and hummed in agreement. “I wonder if we’d even find this ritual in these books. If it succeeded before...would we even have the knowledge to record it? A realm where everything stays the same...” She bit her lip. “It would be like the lost era.”

“No knowledge.” Asra whispered quietly, crawling to Iris’s lap, burying his face in her thigh. “Knowledge, learning, wisdom...they all beget change. If the Devil seeks a world without change, there would be no learning. No records.” 

“Right.” Iris whispered, running a hand absentmindedly through Asra’s hair as she leaned back against the headboard. “So...maybe this is a ritual that’s never been performed before. Maybe it’s a conceptual ritual that’s only resided with the gods for a long time, never attempted.” 

Asra furrowed his brows. “Or it has been performed before, and... but...would that even be possible? The first magician called down the Arcana thousands of years ago. Would...the earth even be able to recover?”

“That’s just a myth.” Iris sighed. “We’ve been looking into this for hours. Maybe we could use a break.” 

Asra’s eyelashes fluttered as he looked up to Iris, a smirk pulling on his lips. “Have something in mind?” 

She gently slapped his shoulder. “After two rounds this morning, I’m good.” Her eyes fell to her memory box on the vanity; she picked it up, undoing the trick buttons without thinking, the lacquered top springing open soundlessly. 

Asra sat up, peering into the box. Iris could see his eyes light up softly with recognition. “Have you had a chance to look through this at all?” He murmured to her; he reached into the box and gently extracted the gold-flecked cork, turning it over in his hands as his eyes clouded over with fondness, recalling the memory it held for him. 

“Only once. When I needed a break from preparing for the trial.” Iris said softly, holding out her hand to him. “Is this one special to you?” With a smile, he passed the cork to her; it was warm from his touch. 

“Mmmm.” Asra said with a tweak of his eyebrow and a warm sparkle of his eye, laying his cheek back onto Iris’s thigh. “One of my favorites, if I’m being honest. I tracked that cork down for you just for your memory box. It’d worked it’s way behind the bookcase in the backroom.” 

Iris furrowed her brows at this information, focusing on the quiet energy that emanated from the trinket. It was soft and precious, safe, comfortable, but also hot and hazy, full of passion...Iris focused on that feeling, of Asra’s cheek now pressed against hers, his warm hand smoothing over her leg, thumbing the swell of her thigh, the sweetness, the warmth of the memory...

_Iris lolled behind the counter, her head hung low; she was tired. The shop was empty now – most of Vesuvia was at the palace for the opening night of the masquerade – but it had been a busy day, and Asra still wasn’t back from the market. She checked the ticking clock in the corner of the store, hung over the mantel. It was nearly nine. Fuck it._

_With a sweep of her hand, the lantern outside sputtered and went out, the three front locks clicking loudly. She rolled her neck and her shoulders, sighed as her bones cracked, the muscles relaxed. She rubbed a hand over the back of her neck, and looked down._

_She was a teenager in this memory, but the fullness of her breasts, the swell of her hips was unmistakable; she was a young woman now. Her hair was long, halfway down her back, and tied back with a loose braid, but this she undid now, ready to douse the fire in the hearth and head up to the apartment. There was a book of protection spells with her name on it – she knew Asra would want to test her on them soon. So much for her plan..._

_As if she summoned him into being with her thoughts, Asra burst through the back door, arms absolutely laden with packages and parcels. She furrowed her brows, but a smirk played across her face._

_“I was wondering what took you so long...it seems you didn’t just need to run out for milk and eggs.”_

_He grinned impishly and gestured with his chin to the backroom – quickly, Iris magicked opened the curtain, and he unburdened himself of the load in his arms._

_“You only turn 18 once, Iris.” He said quietly, his eyes twinkling as he opened the packages. There was fresh farm cheese, and something in a hard, rock-like rind that probably smelled like feet but tasted divine, from the cheesemonger – luxurious jams made with off-season fruits, the pumpkin bread she adored from Selasi, the honey-laden sesame bread from Aster’s stall in the Southside market._

_There were pomegranates, deliciously fragrant, their magenta hue striking against the worn gray wood of the table, along with an abundance of barberries, red grapes and currants – all her favorites. There was a small cake, just enough for two, iced in a stupidly vivid purple, smelling of violets and decorated with white fondant irises. There was an obscene bouquet of whitewinter lilies, which Iris buried her face in to inhale their delicate, feminine scent. And…_

_Iris gasped as Asra opened the last package. It was a bottle of wine, the green-gold glass twinkling in the low light of the backroom lantern. Golden Goose. Asra held it out to her, face split into a wild, winsome grin, one hand on the neck, the other cradled around the bottle’s base; she touched the beautiful hand-drawn label tentatively, her heart skipping. A goblet of this cost more than what the shop earned on a good day._

_“Asra, what did you do, steal this?” She breathed, dazzled. He chuckled._

_“I have my ways.” He was uncorking it now with his magic; Iris’s breath caught in her throat, waiting for the pop as Asra pointed it away from her and the windows. It burst out, almost noiselessly, and the stopper pinged harmlessly against the whitewashed walls while graceful, fragrant effluvium gushed over the bottle’s lip._

_Asra magicked two mugs from the front room to them and poured two generous servings of the sparkling wine, handing one to Iris. She swallowed._

_“It’s too much, Asra, I don’t deserve all this…” She fussed, but he shushed her, smiling impishly._

_“Your first taste of adulthood should be exquisite.” He said, staring at her through wicked, half-lidded eyes. He raised his glass to her. “To you, Iris. Happy birthday.”_

_Iris blushed, and an uncomfortable but comfortable heat rushing up into her belly. She lowered her nose into the cup, sniffed – the fragrance was delicate, addictive. She took a hesitant sip – it truly was exquisite, impossibly smooth and very faintly sweet; a fine riot of bubbles danced on her tongue as she swallowed. She felt warm – it was stronger than she expected, and it felt as if the alcohol went straight to her brain._

_Asra’s grin took over his face as he took a drink, too; he closed his eyes and moaned gently with satisfaction through his pursed lips. “It’s even better than they say.” He crooned. At this, Iris laughed._

_“Did you get this for me so you could try it?” She teased him, taking another sip through smiling lips._

_“I won’t say that I wasn’t excited to try it myself.” He winked at her. “I have one last thing for you.”_

_“What else could you have possibly gotten me? Jewels? A pony?” Iris joked, ripping off a piece of the pumpkin bread and decanting a jar of sour apricot jam. She was ravenous._

_Asra bit his lip, sighed softly, then presented her with a large envelope. It was stamped with the Praetor’s magic seal, and dated from eight months ago. His expression was sheepish, uncertain._

_Her heart jumped, and she swallowed sharply as she took the package from him. She traced the wax, and the envelope sprung open, magicked to open only at her touch. Inside, there was an official looking letter, a heavy piece of parchment paper, and another envelope, this one addressed to her in Opal’s looping handwriting. Iris sat down, heavily; she opened the official letter first, skimming it._

_“Fatal prognosis...underage beneficiary...deed housed with guardian as trustee...to be presented when beneficiary comes of age...” She glimpsed through the curling script of the Praetor’s amanuensis. Iris mouthed the words to herself silently, then flipped over the heavy parchment paper in her other hand. She gasped. It was the deed to the shop, to her home, her full name, Iris Selene Keshet, written neatly in her aunt’s handwriting over the ownership line and legalized with her seal and the Praetor’s._

_She bit back tears, and ripped open her aunt’s letter. It was long, several pages – Iris could see how shaky her handwriting had become in the end, while the cancer spiraled its claws through her. Opal had addressed her as “My dear little clove...”_

_Iris folded the letter up as tears fell earnestly; she wiped them away quickly. She was dying to read it, but she didn’t want to cry in front of Asra, not tonight._

_Gently, he took the deed and the letter from her, and knelt to touch the backroom wall. The whitewash dissolved to reveal a long metal drawer with a lock. He opened it with a key from his keyring and stowed the papers there with the shop’s earnings. When he closed the drawer, it locked again, and faded back into the wall. He handed the keyring to Iris._

_“The shop and the flat are yours now.” He said quietly. “Opal entrusted them to me until you came of age.” He rose, blushing faintly. “Also...my guardianship is nullified, now that you’re legally an adult. I’m moving back in with Muriel by the end of the month.”_

_Iris’s heart sank. “Oh, Asra… you don’t have to do that. You can stay here.”_

_He smiled, the look in his eyes bittersweet. “You don’t need me here, Iris. You’re smart, you’re capable, and you’re tough. The shop is doing well in your hands. I’ll still see you often – we have your studies, after all.”_

_“No, I –” Iris choked on the hot words that burned in her throat. “I want you here.” She flushed, embarrassed. She took another swig of wine, hoping it would embolden her. “I...I want you to stay.”_

_Asra regarded her curiously, his deep, starry gaze locking with hers. “Why do you want me to stay?”_

_Iris bit her lip, and made her move. She’d practiced in her head all day, knew this was what she wanted, desperately, since the moment she first laid eyes on him three years ago to the day, before she knew anything of desire, of want. Still, she hesitated, her fingers quivering, as she reached up and touched the exposed skin of his chest, her fingers trailing across the smooth muscle. She felt his heart jump in his chest._

_In one swift movement, Asra knelt down in front of her, his breath shaky, his lips parted. She reached under the collar of his shirt now and traced his clavicle, her heart pounding, her hand shaking. He set his mug down on the table, then cupped both of his hands over her face._

_“Iris...is this really what you want?” He murmured. “This will...complicate things.”_

_“Yes.” She said, this time without hesitation, and leaned forward slowly, their gazes locking, foreheads touching. “And fuck it, Asra. It’s already complicated – you’re my mentor, you’re my friend, you were my guardian. Why not...” She swallowed, the word still thick and cumbersome in her throat. “Why not be my lover, too? We’re...we’re both adults now.”_

_A smile, hesitant but hopeful, true, shined across his face. “You’re sure?” He paused, inhaled so quietly that Iris almost missed it. "I want you to feel safe with me, Iris. More than anything else."_

_“You don't need to protect me anymore. Please, Asra. I've waited this long. Don’t make me wait another day.” She gripped his shoulder now, under the shirt, and pulled him to a kiss._

_She could cry at the softness of his lips, how quickly he reacted against her, pressing his mouth into hers skillfully, making her self-conscious at her clumsy, inexpert movements. She kissed him hungrily, her brain short-circuiting; she felt like she could never kiss him enough, and she was afraid to ever let go._

_He let her lead and explore, guiding her, rewarding her when she did something that felt good. When she bit his bottom lip gently, he gave her a low, sweet groan; when she pressed her tongue against his lips, he opened his mouth, surprising her, and let her touch her tongue to his; she absolutely melted at the taste of him. A devilish smile curled across his face against her lips, before he started sucking on her tongue gently._

_Iris trembled, and her body moved intuitively, pressing into him so their chests were flush against each other, her knees opening so he could get closer to her. He ran his hands up through her hair, down her neck, over her shoulders, down her arms, everything he could touch without frightening her. She touched him, too, her fingers tracing the chiseled valleys of his chest, the swells of his shoulders, his strong, strong arms, his sculpted neck, the warmth from his skin surging through her like an electric current._

_They kissed and kissed and kissed, their hands roving over each other’s clothed bodies as they touched each other for very first time. When Asra finally pulled away, Iris was practically breathless, wet and wild and wanting between her legs._

_“Can I touch you here?” He murmured to her, his breath hot against her skin as he traced the outline of her breasts with the back of his fingers. Iris’s breath hitched in her throat and she nodded._

_Asra looked her in the eyes now, as soft, shallow breaths fell over his parted lips. “I need to hear you say it, Iris. I don’t want to hurt you.”_

_“Yes,” She panted, color rising to her cheeks. “But...you don’t...I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”_

_“I know you will...but know you’re the one in control here. I want...I want you to know you’re in control.” His voice was so sweet, so soft, so low, as his hand hovered over her dress. “This is your first time doing anything like this, right?”_

_She blushed furiously now. “I...there wasn’t anyone...anyone else I wanted...” She stammered, her voice breathy and desperate. “It was always you, Asra.”_

_It was Asra’s turn to blush. “Your boundaries are important to me. Your comfort is important to me. Your safety.” He paused, mortified, before he repeated his own words from before. “Your first time should be exquisite.”_

_Iris’s lips stretched to a half-smile, half-smirk. “What does that make you, Golden Goose?” She teased as she wrapped her arms around his neck, running her hands through his pillowy hair._

_His lips fell onto hers, kissing her deeply, and his hand fell onto her breast, squeezing so gently. “You’re the Golden Goose here. I could drink you.” He whispered, before trailing kisses to her neck. “Is this okay?”_

_“Yes.” She, in return, kissed his shoulder with open lips, her tongue exploring his skin. “Is this?”_

_He chuckled, his breath ticking sensitive skin. “It is.” He kissed every inch of her neck down to her clavicle while she tasted his skin, then he slowly ran his tongue all the way up her neck to the underside her chin, before kissing her lips again, hard, hot, deep. He pressed his tongue against the part of her lips, and she opened her mouth against his; their tongues swirled together, and Iris felt dizzy at the delicious, delirious heat. His hand massaged the sloping hill of her chest, moving it upward ever so slightly._

_“Can...can pull your dress down?” He breathed into her, clutching at the loose fabric around her waist._

_“Yes, please.” She said, her lips parted, her pupils dilating as she loosed the blue ribbon that held her dress to her shoulders. She arched her back and pressed her chest into his as she pulled her arms out of the long peasant sleeves; Asra grabbed at the fabric and pulled it down, running his hands over her breasts, caressing her through the cloth, before tugging it down around her waist. Her chest was completely nude now, and she bristled a little in the chilly air. She tugged at his shirt. “Can I…?”_

_“Yes.” She practically ripped it off of him, her eyes roving over his nakedness. She had seen him undressed like this before – they had gone to the beach, to the cave, to swim as friends, and they shared quarters now, but it was never up close and personal like this, and she could never...she trailed her hand down to his stomach and a soft sigh escaped her lips as her fingertips explored the spectacular churn of muscle there._

_“I want to kiss your chest – is that okay?” He whispered to her, his fingers wrapping around her naked waist. He lowered his head to her chest, his lips hovering over the skin, waiting for her. Instead, she arched her back, pressing her flesh to his lips, right where the swell of her breasts rose, a few inches below her collarbone. He moaned softly, and Iris nearly burst at the sound; he kissed the outline of her breasts, tenderly spiraling his kisses around the swell, before he finally took her nipple into his mouth and gently suckled her._

_Iris saw sparks, and she whimpered, squirmed; Asra paused, his eyes flitting to hers, questioning. Her hands found his hair again, and she gently pushed his head back down onto her breast. With a sweet little groan, his tongue flitted over her again, less gently than before, needful now – his other hand rose from her waist to the other breast, his thumb rubbing against the other nipple. She arched her back wildly as he touched her, pleased her; she couldn’t suppress the quiet moan of pleasure that rose from her belly._

_He smiled against her skin, and for many minutes continued to do just this, kissing and sucking on each of her hardening nipples, until his mouth sank down underneath the swell of her chest. Iris realized he was going lower, lower, as he kissed her ribs, her navel, the softness of her stomach…she whimpered again, the hot coil of need inside her growing tighter._

_He paused there, his lips hovering, just brushing against the impossibly silky skin of her belly. “Iris...how far do you want to go?” He asked her gently, breathlessly, looking up into her eyes; she saw how wide his pupils had grown, the void nearly swallowing the spiritual violet she loved._

_She bit her lip. She didn’t know the answer to this question, but she knew what she wanted right now. “I want to keep going.”_

_Asra licked his lips. “Can we move to the floor?” He asked, his voice wavering._

_Iris shivered. “Yes, please.”_

_They shifted, Asra’s hand on the small of her back as he gently lowered her onto the smooth, worn floorboards, the soft carpet under the table. The wood groaned at their weight and felt chilly on Iris’s bare skin, making her arch her back into Asra, their naked chests pressed together, hot skin against hot skin. He bit his lip, breath quivering in his throat._

_“I want to take your dress off...is that okay?” His eyes roved over her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, her neck, the sight of her underneath him almost overwhelming._

_“Okay.” Iris whispered, cinching her abs up so he could lift the fabric up over her shoulders. All she was wearing now were sheer gray leggings; with a flush, she realized the soft fabric over her sex was soaked through._

_Asra ran his fingers down her stomach to the swell of her hips, his eyes cloudy with lust; they fell on her wet mound, and he exhaled shakily. Iris saw his own sex stir through his slinky trousers._

_“Can I touch you here?” He murmured, his voice leaden with desire, his fingertips barely ghosting over the damp apex of her legs. She inhaled sharply as a hot want streaked through her, and her voice rose from her throat in a whine._

_“Please?”_

_His lips curled into a roguish smile, the curved outline of his hardness now fully visible. “My, my.” He hummed, but didn’t oblige her just yet; he groped at the soft flesh inside her thighs, traced the seam between her hips and legs with his fingertips, grasped at the swells of her hips._

_She opened her legs a little wider, silently begging him to touch her. He noticed, but still took his time, teasing her with his gentle, exploratory caresses. When he finally, finally, cupped her mound, his fingers tracing her slit through the fabric, she keened loudly._

_“You’re so wet...” Asra couldn’t help but moan through parted lips. Iris desperately wanted him to touch her skin – she pushed down the waistband of her tights with a soft grunt, and Asra grabbed at them, pulling them down and off her legs. Her bare thighs were draped across his legs now as he straddled her hips; she could almost feel the heat of his erection through his trousers._

_Their eyes met, and he touched her again, now skin to skin, breathing heavily, shakily through his parted lips, drinking in every one of her blissful movements, her quiet cries. He only touched her slick lips, stroking them, tracing them, parting them, but not yet breaching her._

_“Have you ever had an orgasm?” He asked her breathily after a minute or two of teasing._

_Iris moaned as she writhed at his touch, her voice choked. “Ye-…yeah...”_

_“Do you...” His voice caught. “Do you know how to do it yourself?”_

_She blushed deeply now – it was such an oddly intimate question. She had masturbated many times since she’d arrived in Vesuvia three years ago – mostly to thoughts of him. Sometimes while he slept in the bed beside her. “I do...” She whispered._

_He licked his lips. “Will you show me? I...I want you to feel good.” The words practically gushed out of him, his eyes cloudy with lust, with need. “I want to make you come.”_

_“What...what do you mean?” She panted. He gently grabbed her hand on her stomach and placed it over his, her fingers directly on top of his._

_“Show me the movements while I…” He trailed off, his shallow breaths spilling over his lips in hot bursts at just the thought. She nodded fervently, the heat of want rushing through her again. She understood what he was asking._

_He repositioned so he was kneeling beside her, rather than over her, so their hands could comfortably work together. His dark eyes flew hungrily over her supine body as they moved together down her stomach to her vulva. Iris rubbed the pad of her middle finger against the top of his in a long stroking motion, and he did the same to her labia, gently teasing her lips apart._

_“Oh….oh, yes...” She murmured, rolling her neck back. Asra groaned softly; he didn’t even want to blink, lest he miss a moment of her pleasure._

_She softly circled her fingertip now, and he mimicked her motions on her swollen clitoris, absolutely soaked in her desire. She sucked air through her gritted teeth and then groaned, her shoulders shaking as a familiar and wholly unfamiliar sensation arced through her. It was so, **so** much better when Asra touched her. _

_After maybe a minute of this, she guided him to 1’o clock, and pressed a gentle stroke, almost a pulse, into his finger. He followed her motion exactly, and she cried out softly._

_“Just like that, Asra...please...” She moaned. He hummed in return, and kept going – his other hand traced the softness of her stomach and breasts, almost absentmindedly, like he couldn’t exist any longer without feeling the warmth of her skin._

_It was this movement now, over and over, for several minutes; the only sounds were Iris’s panting breaths and sweet little sounds as Asra teased apart the knot inside her, her hand on his hand, the other thrown over her head as the heat in her belly simmered. It wasn’t long before she climaxed, biting her lip against high, whimpered mewls of ecstasy, arching her back against the floorboards, her legs falling open as she rocked her hips against Asra’s hand with each pulse of pleasure._

_Asra slowed his fingers, careful not to overstimulate her while she returned to him. He leaned down and kissed her face all over, his words hot against her, his voice positively shuddering now. “You’re so gorgeous, Iris. I could watch you forever.”_

_Iris ached with desire; she felt like her head was spinning, and even though he just gave her so much bliss, she wanted more. She wanted him._

_She turned her head face to him, her lips parted, her face flushed, the hairs around her forehead slicked down with sweat. “Asra...I want to do it. All of it.”_

_He paused and exhaled shakily. “Are you sure?” He asked her. “We can stop whenever you want. I don’t want you to feel pressured.”_

_“I want to. I...I want you.” Iris reached up and cupped his cheek, looking deep into his sparkling eyes. “Do you want to? I know this is...moving quickly.”_

_“Oh, Iris...” He couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice, the adoration out of his eyes. “I’ve wanted you for so long...if this is what you want...” She didn’t need to dip into him to see that he wanted nothing more than to have her, right now._

_“Yes. I want you. I want it all.” She grasped at the waistband of his pants. “Can...can we take these off?”_

_“Please...” The buttons down his thighs came apart easily with both of them working. Iris took a deep breath, and looked up at Asra – he smiled encouragingly, nodding. She carefully pulled the waistband down over his hips._

_She’d never quite seen an erect penis before; it wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d caught accidental glimpses of Asra while he’d changed, seen the soft patch of fine, light hair, the bulge of his scrotum, but she knew the member itself would look very different in the heat of the moment. She was a little overwhelmed by it, the curve, the thickness, the length. Her stomach clenched a little at the thought of it inside her, even as the rest of her body alighted with want._

_“Are...are you okay?” Asra could sense her trepidation, see it on her features._

_“I, uh...I’ve never seen you like this before.” Iris stumbled over how to explain. “Can I...can I touch you?”_

_He bit his lip. “Yes, but...I don’t think I’ll be able to hold it together for very long...if we’re going to...”_

_She nodded; she touched him, running her fingertips slowly up his length. She was shocked by how fever-hot his cock was, how naturally it fit in her hand as she palmed it. Her hands knew what to do, grip tightly but not too tightly, pump gently, run her thumb over the seam. Asra groaned and closed his eyes, and let her work him for no more than a minute; when she leaned forward to explore with her mouth, he pulled away reluctantly._

_“I...we can try that another time. We have so much time.” His voice was honeyed, dripping. “I want this to be about you. Your pleasure.”_

_Her heart swelled in her chest. She leaned her head back and spread her legs, and reached up to pull him to her, but he resisted._

_“Actually...” He bit his lip, and his cock twitched slightly. “I think you should be on top.”_

_Iris gulped, her cheeks reddening. “I don’t know what to do, Asra. I want you to show me.”_

_He leaned forward to kiss her softly, reassure her. “I will, but I promise you’ll know what to do. And...and it will feel better for you. I don’t want to hurt you, and this way...” He traced her cheek gently. “You’ll be in control.”_

_Iris’s heart leapt into her throat. He had really thought this through, really wanted her to feel safe with him. “Okay...okay.” She said._

_He sighed, his eyes aglow as he regarded her – for a moment, neither of them moved, uncertain, caught in the dripping gaze of the other. But gently, gently, Iris pressed into his shoulder, guiding him backwards and down so he was the one lying with his back flush to the floorboards – he kicked off his pants, completely naked now. Her body surged at the sight of him, the beautiful swath of his bare amber skin, his adoring gaze on her, his lips parted and panting, his cock hard and twitching between the soft, round, firm of his thighs; she realized that she would enjoy being on top of him much, much more than she had ever imagined._

_He held his arms out to her, and she climbed carefully over him, planting her hands above his shoulders. He gently ran his palms up her bare back and lifted his head, chin inclined towards her, his lips parted; Iris knew what he was asking for, nudged her lips into his and let her hand trail to his chest, tracing his hardened nipple very delicately, making him sigh into her mouth. They kissed hotly for a minute or two – Iris was shocked at how easy, how natural kissing seemed now, when just hours ago the thought of her lips on his made her want to explode. She pulled away and bit her lip hesitantly._

_“There’s one last thing...”_

_“Oh!” Asra’s eyes lit up, and Iris felt a rush of heat coming from his trunk, saw a flash of purple light. “I...I almost forgot...”_

_Iris raised her eyebrows quizzically; Asra blushed. “It...it’s a barrier spell. It neuters the seed. So you won’t...carry my child. It will keep you from getting sick, too.”_

_Iris opened her mouth, and then closed it, pursing her lips together. He had known what she was going to ask. Still…_

_“Can you...pull out? Or tell me when you’re close? You could...you could come on me, instead, if you want.” She blushed furiously at the words, but she would be lying if she said she hadn’t fantasized about it before...many times._

_One warm hand cupped her cheek – she leaned in to his touch, closed her eyes. His affection for her radiated from him like some unbelievable star, and she wanted to bask in it forever. “Of course, if that’s what you want.” He murmured, barely masking the excitement that steeped into his voice. She nodded feverishly._

_She kissed him one more time and hesitated for just a moment before leaning back and placing her hands on the firm of his chest, pressing herself against his erection. Her breath hitched to feel him under her, and he groaned softly, then closed his eyes, parting his lips with his tongue, letting his head fall to the floor with a little graceless thud._

_She moved her hips against his, slowly, rubbing his full length against her wetness. She shivered with pleasure – the feeling was delicious, the way it sent a diaspora of sparks up her spine, made her shoulders twitch and her voice jump in her throat. She could do this all night, she thought, biting her lip, but the way Asra arched his back and gritted his teeth now – it must be torture for him, to be this close to being inside her, and yet still so, so far from her._

_Tentatively, she reached down between her legs and grasped him, eliciting another soft grunt. She hovered over him, her legs shaking a little; a wave of apprehension washed over her as she felt him throb in her hand. Asra sensed her hesitation, his brows furrowing ever so slightly as he reached for her._

_“Iris, you’re in control. Go at your own pace.” He reassured her, his voice breathy, shaky. “And remember we can stop if you want. Whenever you want.” His eyes roved up her body above him, and Iris could feel him quiver beneath her as he touched her cheek, his other hand gently thumbing the inside of her thigh above her knee. He wanted her so badly – it was plain on his face, the peak of his brows, the quiver of his lips, and yet, he waited for her, as he always had; his restraint, not just in this moment, but since she had grown into herself, was all for her._

_This was all the encouragement she needed. With a little fumbling, she guided his tip where her labia bloomed, hot and sweet and softening; slowly, slowly, she lowered herself on to him. She hissed a little when his head slipped through her wetness and entered her, more from surprise than from pain, but the sound he made, that wild groan of unadulterated bliss as his hand clutched at her cheek, made her surge._

_She lowered herself a little further as she unfurled slowly, like a scroll of ancient knowledge, a wild tapestry of primal need; it was a completely new sensation that made her heart pound in her chest, heat rise to her cheeks, her mouth fall open as she moaned. She pulsed a little on him now, and he whispered, whimpered, “Oh, Iris, Iris...you’re doing so good...”_

_The way he stretched out her name on his tongue, like it was five syllables instead of two, made her delirious, made her so hot. She lowered herself a little more – she could get addicted to this feeling, of him stretching her, filling her. His hands grazed across her body and found her hips, where he grasped at the flesh greedily; Iris was sure her body had formed its shape just so he could hold her this way._

_With a final gasp, she lowered herself all the way onto him, felt the pressure of his pubis, his pelvis, against hers, the glorious heat of having him hilted inside her. Below her, Asra groaned again tremulously, the loudest sound of the night. He was right – she knew exactly what to do, wildly rocking and grinding her hips against his without any hesitation, back and forth, her entire body taking over as dense, delicious shockwaves rolled through her, singing through her core to her spine, up to her heart, her lungs, her brain. The way his skin rubbed against her swollen clit, the way his cock smoothed through her and bumped against her over and over – nothing, no amount of masturbation or fantasy, could have ever prepared her for this feeling._

_“Asra...” She cried, over and over, scrunching her eyes shut as she threw her head back – she clutched at the muscles of his stomach, using him as leverage to increase her speed._

_“By the Gods, Iris...” His fingers dug into her hips, and he moved with her, pulling her forward onto him and pumping himself into her, making the sensations inside all the more dazzling. She clenched her teeth as something like an animal growl of pleasure rose up inside of her._

_They moved together like this for some time, unknowable to the both of them, so absorbed they were in the movements, the sounds, the pleasure, of the other. It was only when Iris felt the very beginning swells of orgasm, unlike anything she had ever felt before, that Asra barely choked out her name – she recognized this immediately as a warning._

_Reluctantly, she climbed off of him; he reached down and grasped himself, pumping and panting – with his other hand he touched Iris again, his fingers swirling against her clit frantically, making her cry out as she clung to his thighs, the muscles tensing and twitching, almost violently. It wasn’t long before he cried out her name again, over and over, and he came onto her bare chest and stomach, onto himself. Iris gasped at how hot his cum was on her damp skin, how hot she felt watching him orgasm._

_The only sound that filled the tiny backroom now was the soft chorus of their panting as they looked deep into each others eyes, coming down, coming down. Iris magicked his cum off both of them and into the ether, and laid her body down next to him in the crook of his arm. He wrapped one arm around her waist and the other hand found her hair, rumpling it as he cradled her head. He pressed his mouth into hers, tenderly now – she kissed him back, still winded from their lovemaking._

_“Oh, Iris, Iris...” He whispered, the words tumbling from him breathlessly. “You were spectacular. You never cease to amaze me.”_

_She blushed. “You absolutely spoiled me.” She nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent – it was the same, smoky, herby, cinnamon-y, but somehow, different, more intoxicating. “This feels like a dream; tell me it isn’t a dream.”_

_“If it is...it’s a good one.” Asra said, his lips in her hair. “One I will be keeping.” He kissed her again, and then they were still, glowing in the warmth of each other’s arms. They could have laid there forever, but Iris’s stomach growled loudly. She was still ravenous._

_Asra laughed, perhaps the most freely that Iris had ever heard him laugh, as if he had been unburdened of all his worries. “I brought you home a feast, and then I didn’t let you eat it. You must be starving.”_

_“It wasn’t a feast that I wanted for my birthday.” Iris murmured into his neck with a small smile, as he reached up to grab the grapes and the bread from the table._

Iris hummed quietly as she returned to the guestroom with a shiver, goosebumps prickling her arms and shoulders. Asra kissed her cheek, a little sigh escaping his lips, warmth licking her skin. “It’s a good one, isn’t it?” He murmured. 

Iris turned her head, pressing her lips to his, hot little tears of happiness springing up into her eyes. “You’re the good one. You were so good to me.” 

“We were good to each other, in our ways.” He replied, nuzzling his nose against Iris’s. “Those years we were together, living together at your shop...before the plague, before everything...they’re the happiest years of my life.” 

Iris placed her hands over his cheeks, pulling him in for another kiss. “There are happy years to come, my heart.” 

Asra smiled sadly. “Yes. But it won’t be the same. We were so carefree then. Making love every morning, running the shop together, traveling together whenever the Arcana moved us...we were so naive. We knew nothing of what was to come. Just two fools in love.” 

Iris nudged her forehead against his, a little smile playing on her lips. “So the happiness will be different. The happiness of experience. The happiness of wisdom. The happiness of trudging through the dark forest together, to find the sunrise on the other side.” She kissed him. “The happiness of choosing each other, in spite of everything. That doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

“No.” Asra wrapped his arms around Iris’s shoulders, burying his face in her shoulder. “Any future by your side would make me happy.” 

“And Julian?” Iris couldn’t help but ask, dropping her nose into Asra’s hair, breathing in the scent of his smokey, puffy hair. 

Asra paused for a moment, but Iris could feel his lips stretching into a fond little smile on her shoulder. “Ilya makes me happy, too.” 

“I’ll take it.” Iris whispered into his scalp, kissing him once before straightening. Her deck was on the bedside table, calling softly to her; she answered, shuffling deftly, Asra watching curiously from her shoulder as she laid down two cards. She paused for a moment; she almost never did a two-card reading, and yet the cards had compelled her to this. She saw Asra’s brows furrow in her periphery as she flipped over the first card. 

**The Devil** , a goat with long, hooked horns, a pentacle emblazoned on his forehead, his hooves spewing fire. Iris felt the blood rush to her cheeks, to her neck; she felt flushed and feverish as she flipped the next card. It was **the Fool** , the downy chick with their foot outstretched, as if to take that terrifying first step before flying. 

Iris’s intuition rushed hotly through her, just as Asra’s breath hitched in his throat; she turned to him, her eyes wide. “The Arcana do have relationships with each other. The Hanged Man and Death are strongly bonded; The Fool and the Magician. The Magician and The High Priestess. Temperance and the Devil. But... what do you think would happen if the Devil tried to bind himself to the Fool?” She asked Asra. 

“I was thinking the same thing.” Asra said quietly, reaching out to touch Iris’s cards, fingers tracing over them reverently. “The ritual that attempted to bind Lucio to the Fool’s body is still in stasis in the Master wing. If I could hijack it...I’m sure the Devil could, too.” 

“In the infinite futures that the Fool contains...” Iris muttered, lips parted and brows cinched in thought. “There must be one that is the end of the liminal barriers, one that plunges the mortal world into chaos. And if the Devil can access that future...” 

“...He might be able to manifest it.” Asra finished for her, his chin buried in his fist now as he sat cross-legged, regarding the cards in front of him. He had taken his own deck out of his pocket, shuffling them absentmindedly. “But why...why bring Lucio back, then?” 

He drew the top card. **The Lovers**. He sighed in frustration. “That’s not very clear...” 

“They never are, are they?” Iris said quietly, regarding the card, two snakes intertwined, their scales buttery yellow and beautiful, pale violet, almost the color of Asra’s eyes. “You always say they’re capricious.” Her gaze traced the outline of the serpent’s interlocking tails, their arms tangled in embrace. “The Lovers can represent shared values and love, commitment, but also the physical and spiritual union of two beings. Asra, what if...the Magician said Lucio tried to become one with the Devil. What if the Devil plans to use Lucio to get the Fool’s body? They merge together, and then throne into the Fool’s body. The Devil would walk the earth.” 

Asra turned to Iris, his eyes wide. “But you have the Fool’s body. To do that...” 

“...They would need a way to remove me from the body.” She met his gaze, her cheeks hot. “Do you think the Devil is powerful enough to do that?” 

“Almost certainly.” Asra said quietly. “But he doesn’t need to be. They would just have to kill you. The Fool’s body would just disappear into the ether.” 

“Oh, good.” Iris said jokingly, but her heart sank to her sacrum. “So, then...we stop the ritual. Keep Lucio and the Devil from completing their union.” 

“I don’t know if it’ll be that easy.” Asra said quietly. “Pomegranate juice worked last time, when Lucio had fewer than half of the participants needed. We don’t know who he’ll pull into it this time. And...it only paused the ritual. The only way to stop it is to complete it.” 

The door sliding quietly on its tracks startled both Iris and Asra, Iris wheeling around wildly; it was Julian, brows raised, a knowing smile warming his features. Piled in his arms were a few sets of clothing, undoubtedly their dress for dinner, sent up by Nadia or Portia. “I forget how easily the two of you startle.” He chuckled. “I was sent to fetch you. Dinner will be ready soon.” 

Iris glanced at the tall windows; the sun had, indeed, slunk below the horizon, leaving behind the gauzy robe of night. She had barely registered the passing of time; it would be tomorrow soon, and 24 hours from now, at sundown, the masquerade would start. She rose from the bed, crossing the room to plant a kiss on Julian’s cheek, taking the clothes from him. 

“How was your day, darling?” She asked him quietly as Asra joined them, accepting a quick kiss on the forehead from Julian. 

“We presented our contingency plan to Nadia. I never expected her to know so much about epidemiology… the questions she asked, it was like she had swallowed a medical textbook...” 

Iris listened to Julian ramble on as she laid their outfits out on the mussed bed. A gorgeous suit of burgundy velvet, the lapels and cuffs edged in buttery black leather, and a white shirt for Julian. A long, spectacularly embroidered brocade vest, bright blood red with maroon, orange, Byzantium, and silver Drakrian designs, matching arabesque pants, and pointed shoes for Asra. And for Iris...a gossamer white dress, off the shoulder, the neckline covered in silver moons, crowned with long, billowing sleeves, a flowing train. The same dress Death wore at the Lazaret. 

Iris furrowed her brows, heart racing as she turned back to Julian. “These are too lovely for just dinner. Is there an event for the masquerade tonight?” 

Julian smirked, locking eye with Asra, who smiled mischievously and shook his head. Iris’s eyes darted between them, narrowed with suspicion, making Asra laugh. “For a clairvoyant, you’re rather slow on the uptake.” With a soft flick of his wrist, Asra summoned a small box, wrapped intricately in what looked like liquid silver; he presented the gift to Iris with a flourish. “Happy birthday, my heart.” 

A soft blush crept over her, even as a small smile spread across her cheeks. “You’re a day early.” Tentatively, she took the box from his hand; the covering melted away, dripping down her fingers and into the ether. It was jewelry box. 

“Asra...” She said quietly. “It’s too much.” She flipped open the lid; it was an exquisite, delicate silver necklace, short, meant to sit against the throat, holding a glorious and rather large round-cut garnet. Somehow, it was achingly familiar. “How could we afford this?” 

He leaned in and kissed her temple, shushing her gently. “It was your mother’s; Opal entrusted it to me. I was going to give it to you on your 21st birthday, but...” He trailed off; he didn’t need to continue. He lifted the necklace from its box and let his fingers brush over Iris’s shoulders as he secured the fastener delicately against the nape of her neck; the jewel sat perfectly against her clavicle. The energy Iris felt coming from it – it was comforting and familiar, not unlike her own. 

“Beautiful.” He whispered, his gaze slinking up her neck to her lips, to her eyes; Iris bit her lips together, trying to stop them from trembling. He leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth, gently caressing down her spine to the small of her back. “Opal would have been so proud of you, Iris. What you’ve accomplished, how much you’ve grown. I’m sure your parents would have been proud, too.” 

Julian laid a gentle, graceful hand on Asra’s shoulder. “We should get ready. They’re waiting for us.” 

“Oh no. They?” Iris said, her brows furrowing as her finger ghosted over the necklace, the facets of the garnet. “Is this a whole thing?” She thought briefly about faking a stomachache, a headache, fatal poisoning.

Asra snorted. “I told you she doesn’t like being fussed over on her birthday.” His eyes warmed, as if he and Iris were sharing a little secret, while he started to undress, peeling the tight leather pants from his legs. 

Julian’s clever fingers had started unworking the buttons to Iris’s dress. “It’s only a few of us, for dinner and drinks, some music. We can leave whenever you want.” He tweaked a coy eyebrow at her as she shrugged her simple dress off her shoulders, letting it fall in a soft pile on the floor. He knelt on one knee, holding open the gorgeous white dress so Iris could step into it; he let his playful gaze rove over her nude body before standing, pulling the dress up with him, and expertly zipping it up. His lips fell open around a sigh. 

“I remember this dress.” He whispered to her, his hands finding the soft swells of her upper arms. “You wore it on Nadia’s birthday, so many years ago, for a moon viewing party. It was one of your favorites. And one of mine.” 

“Death wore it at the Lazaret.” Iris said quietly, adjusting the long sleeves; though they were a little cumbersome, Iris relished the way the slinky fabric swished and slipped against her skin. 

“Probably because it would be comforting to us.” Asra said quietly, his hand finding the small of Iris’s back; he was dressed, and Iris felt her heart race as she turned to him. In the blood red, he was radiantly handsome; the vest showed off the shapeliness of his strong arms, his muscular shoulders. “After seeing it in so many of Ilya’s memories...it became one of my favorites too.” He dropped a gentle kiss on her cheek. “I finally get to see it in the flesh.” 

Asra helped Julian dress, buttoning cufflinks and smoothing lapels, while Iris fixed her hair and quickly powdered her face at the vanity, dotting a touch of dusky rouge on her cheeks, the crushed-rose lipstick on her lips. She considered for a moment trying to fiddle with the kohl when she noticed an obscenely huge bottle of perfume, the size of both of Iris’s fists stacked, full of iridescent blue liquid and tied with a black velvet bow. At its base, a note, written in familiar, beautiful script, papyrus scented lightly with jasmine and lavender. 

_My dear Iris -_

_While I would never tire of showering a dear friend in jewels, my intuition drew me to this scent the last time I was at the perfumer’s. It immediately reminded me of you, your loveliness, your fierceness, your mooniness. I hope you will find it as enchanting and delightful as I find you. Happy birthday._

_Nadia_

Iris unstoppered the curious bottle; immediately, she could smell the riotous floral notes – she chuckled gently – of dewy iris, whitewinter lilies, and Altansarnai roses. She dabbed a few drops on her wrists, one behind each of her ears, and one on her chest, just below the necklace; almost immediately, the musk came through, cutting the cloying sweetness of the florals for something much more mysterious, sensual and feminine.

She turned to her lovers, just as Asra was brushing away a stray lock of Julian’s auburn hair, letting his fingertips linger over the doctor’s temple before pressing a soft, intimate kiss on his lips. Iris’s breath caught in her throat – they were both so handsome in their beautiful clothes, and to watch them share affection so openly now... they noticed her at the same time, startled out of their moment by the sound of her voice. 

“Oh, darling.” Julian breathed, a little color rising in his cheeks. “You are a vision of loveliness.” 

Asra looped his arm around Iris’s waist, dipping his nose into the space between Iris’s neck and shoulder, breathing in deeply. “You smell divine. A gift from Nadi?” 

Iris blushed a little. “I don’t even want to think about how many days of the shop’s earnings this cost.” 

Asra chuckled. “It smells like it was made for you. Your scent, but...” He inhaled deeply again. 

“Amplified.” Julian finished for him, kissing Iris behind her ear. “Are you ready, my darling?” 

She nodded, and they were out the door, down the hall, not towards the dining room, but to Nadia’s wing, to a room that Iris had never been in before; Asra’s eyes twinkled, his hand finding hers as Julian opened the door for them, his hand falling on Iris’s waist as he whisked them into the room. 

It was a private dining room, much like the dining room in Lucio’s wing, beautifully decorated and draped in gold and green silk paneling, but the table was much smaller, seating no more than 12 people, though a chair or two was crammed around it to accommodate everyone. All of Nadia’s present sisters, a resplendent rainbow in their elevated finery, were there, along with Portia, who was almost unrecognizable in a dramatic cap-sleeved bustier dress in a royal blue seongware pattern, her ginger hair down and wild with abundant curls (Iris wondered, for a brief moment, if her hair was as silky as her brother’s). She was chatting animatedly with Dara and Aster, who looked more polished than Iris had ever seen them, Dara in a gray suit embroidered with red and black shirt that shimmered subtly against his dark skin, Aster in a strappy, soft blue velvet gown that embroidered with fantastic motifs from the east, peacocks and poppies and peonies.

Muriel hovered near Nasmira as she spoke with her sisters, dressed simply in a long, cream-colored Rostam-style shirt, a long, wide scarf, subtly shimmering, draped dramatically around his shoulders and down nearly to his feet, and moss green trousers; someone had attempted to tame his hair, pulling it back into a small bun at the base of his neck. He was rather handsome with his hair away from his face, Iris thought, with his square jaw, chiseled cheekbones, straight nose now visible, though it also revealed two large, jagged scars, one that sliced from eyesocket to chin, the other from his hairline to his browbone, that turned Iris’s stomach with sorrow. 

And finally, there was Nadia, in sky-blue silks overlaid with elegantly ruched and ruffled gauzes, embroidered in gold with filegreed constellations, hair piled up around her neck in a magnificent updo. She stood at the head of the table with a glass of wine in her hand, surveying the scene with a sly, satisfied smirk. 

When her penetrating gaze alighted on Iris, she smiled imperiously, and tapped against her glass with her knife, silencing the small crowd as Iris blushed fiercely. 

“Our guest of honor is here.” Nadia announced once the din died down, her voice sure and sonorous. “The masquerade has traditionally been held to celebrate my long-gone husband’s birth, but it so happens that a dear friend of the court shares his birthday.” Nadia’s brows lifted playfully at Iris, chuckling lightly when she shrank back, leaning a little into Asra and Julian’s arms. “I know that she had thoroughly intended to let it pass without so much as a whimper, but Iris is too dear to everyone here for us not to celebrate.” 

Nadia raised her glass to her; Iris realized that someone had passed her a goblet of barberry mead, and everyone else in the room raised their glasses to her. “Happy birthday, Iris. We are all so happy to have you in our lives. May the next year shower you with happiness, prosperity, and...” Nadia winked, with her subtle, all-knowing smile, her eyes leveled on Iris, “...an abundance of love.” The rest of the room echoed her name, some whooping and catcalling, and they drank to her happiness as Iris’s blush deepened, embarrassed but pleased as Julian and Asra each kissed a flushed cheek. 

Dinner was a blur. There was intimate banter: Asra and Julian bickering playfully, flirtatiously; Julian and Portia sniping at each other in a blend of Vesuvian and Nivenese; Aster teasing Asra, Julian, and Iris mercilessly, Dara smirking silently at her side; Natiqa and Nadia throwing diplomatic barbs at everyone, including Iris. There was food, all of Iris’s favorites: steamed mussels in a white wine sauce over long coils of pasta, crusty Franc bread to sop up the liquor, a delicately spicy Drakrian curry of chicken, tomatoes, and cream over rice; a simple salad of spicy greens, radishes, and cucumbers; and finally, a massive rye-and-espresso-soaked tiramisu for dessert. There was drink: barberry mead for Iris, interspersed with a shot or two of firewater, sent over with a wink by Aster, who sat across from her; smoky new world rye, like liquid sunshine, for Asra; tumblers full of of chocolate and coffee scented stout for Julian. 

And, there was music: the palace quintet assembled at the end of the room, playing gentle arias and ballads, the perfect background music for dinner, but once the final plate had been whisked away by the staff, the music immediately changed to a rollicking folk tune. If Iris had her way, she wouldn’t have danced, she was so stuffed, but Julian took her hand and pulled her onto the small space between the musicians and the table, leading her through several dances: a flirtatious cotillion, a romantic, jazzy number, a lilting waltz, a tango. Iris melted in his arms, sinking her head into his shoulder, breathing in his delicious scent as he guided her through each of the steps, his visible eye glowing. 

They were joined by several of the other diners; Aster and Dara cutting in almost immediately on the dancefloor, and Asra danced graciously with some of the other princesses, Navra, Natiqa, Nazali. After the first dance, the rather coquettish number, Nadia and Portia joined, their embrace rather tentative and sweet; it was only during the second waltz, soft and romantic, that Nadia pulled Portia to her, eliciting a deep blush from Portia that reminded Iris, with a laugh, of the man in her arms. 

When she was breathless and damp with sweat, with heat, Julian released her with a deep kiss, taking up a gentle minuet with Nazali. Asra swooped in, wrapped his arm around her waist, swaying with her and letting her catch her breath for one song before putting her through her paces again, another waltz, a folk song, a jazzy number. When Iris thought her legs would give out, Asra lead her to one of the couches, supplying her with another glass of mead; it was here that the guests began presenting her with their gifts, much to Iris’s gentle, gracious chagrin. 

First were Nasmira and Navra, who gave her an exquisite pearl headdress, not unlike what the two of them both wore, in the Prakran style, designed to be draped over the part of her hair. Nazali and Nahara presented Iris with a much more practical gift of a new leather satchel, both having seen the sad state hers was in, nearly falling apart at the seams; Iris nearly cried when she unwrapped it, the buttery cognac leather was so beautiful. Natiqa’s gift was twofold: a gorgeous set of 22 slim books with gold-edged pages on each of the major Arcana, and a bottle of very, very expensive Lach A’Mhuilinn. 

Dara and Aster approached her next, their gift simple but sweet; a set of several exotic unoxidized teas from Nippon, purchased from a traveler, a teamonger who specialized in rare imports who had stayed in their inn. Portia was next, Nadia at her side, gifting her a rare, lost-era novel she had tracked down titled _The Blind Assassin_. Despite gifting her with the perfume, Nadia, with a mischievous smile, also presented Iris with a gorgeous pair of amethyst earrings, the dangling teardrops almost the length of the her thumbs, and twice as wide. 

Then it was Muriel, Nasmira’s hand on his elbow, encouraging him. His mossy eyes pointing downwards, a deep, dusky blush spreading across his face, he presented her with a breathtakingly beautiful hand-carved wolf mask, delicately edged with faux fur of gray and soft brown and white, almost the spitting image of Vasalisa. Iris reddened as he presented it to her; she wondered how long he had been working on it, if he’d started it as soon as the three lovers had left his home less than a week ago, or if he had started it before, before she had met him again, before she had remembered him. Iris thanked him with a gentle, comforting squeeze of his hand, not wanting to embarrass him any further. Secretly, she was excited to wear it tomorrow for the first night of the masquerade. 

Then, Iris realized, as she settled a little deeper into Asra’s arms, snuggling her head against his chest, his arm flung around her shoulders, there was only one person who hadn’t given her a gift yet. Her eyes scanned the small crowd of dancers for her other lover before she realized that several of the partygoers were missing; no, not missing, but they had taken the place of the musicians at the back of the room. 

Nadia was sitting at the piano bench, a vihuela in hand, Nahara with a bandoneon, Navra with a set of maraxixis, Nasmira with her low-toned dabraccio, and Julian expertly tuning his vielle. As if he felt Iris’s eyes on him, his one-eyed gaze fell on her, and a sweet, familiar warmth spread through Iris from her core as his lips spread into a smile.

They started their song, soft and lilting, and Iris startled as Asra stood her up, smiling wickedly, leading her toward the musicians. Someone had set a chair from the dining table next to them, and, despite Iris’s deepening blush, the eyes of every guest on her, Asra sat her here, dropping a gentle kiss on her cheek, giving her an impish wink before retreating. 

Julian smirked at her, cutting a long, sweet note on the vielle. “I didn’t have as much time to prepare my gift as the others.” He said quietly to her. “I didn’t know it was your birthday until last night.” His eye sparkled gently now. “I hope you’ll forgive me, that this is all I have to give you.” 

“Darling...” Iris said softly, her blush intensifying as Nadia started up with her melody, slow dancing with Julian’s sweet countermelody. The music felt incredibly familiar to Iris, and it was only when Julian opened his mouth to sing that she realized he had written this song for her, long ago, when they were together. 

_“I want to hurry home to you...put on a slowed down show for you...and crack you up...”_

Iris’s heart swelled as Julian skillfully sang and played; he was a natural performer, seamlessly transitioning his attention from Iris to his small audience and back again, moving across the makeshift stage fluidly and naturally, never losing his place with the lyrics or his playing. Even when Portia brought him a shot of rum, which he skulled with his bow-hand without missing a beat, he was unshakable, his expression roguish and romantic. 

The song was beautiful, sweet and self-aware, and when they reached the bridge, Julian swept the vielle aside gracefully, stooping on one knee in front of Iris, taking one of her hands in both of his as Nadia transitioned to playing the piano. 

_“You know I dreamed about you...”_ He sang, looking only at her, his husky voice strong and sure. _"I missed you for 29 years...”_

As the song ended with a soft piano outro, Iris pressed a sweet kiss into Julian’s lips, threading her fingers gently through his silky hair as the rest of the partygoers cheered and whooped. Julian smiled against her kiss, pulling her up from her seat into his arms, swaying slowly with her to the music as it faded out. “Happy birthday, my darling.” He whispered, his eyelashes fluttering against her forehead.

They started up into another song, and Iris got roped into singing, a few folk songs, a jazzy ballad, an aubade, with Julian playing by her side, Asra watching the two of them together with so much love in his eyes. It was only when the clock struck midnight, and Iris was singing an ancient women’s prayer ( _“Well, I’ve been afraid of changing ‘cuz I’ve built my life around you...”_ ) realized how long they had been there, how much she had drank, how exhausted she was. 

The song ended, and Iris took a sweeping curtsy to the chorus of cheers from her remaining friends, the night owls, the partiers; some had already trickled to bed, resting up for the day of preparations tomorrow before the gates of the palace opened to all of Vesuvia. Asra, ever intuitive, sensed Iris’s tiredness and held a hand out to her, sweeping her off the little stage, Julian close behind them. 

They said their good-byes, and Portia, with a wink, assured Iris that her gifts would be sent up to her room in the morning. And then the three of them were in the halls, Julian’s arm around Iris’s shoulder, Asra’s hand in hers. When they passed the wide doors to the veranda overlooking the gardens, Asra paused, squeezing Iris’s hand, a small smile spreading across his sweet face.

“There’s one more thing I have to give you, Iris.” Asra said, his voice sotto and tender. He lead them out into the gardens, into the hedge maze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> 1\. BEHOLD: The one (1) fluff chapter!
> 
> 2\. It's still Iris's birthday week in my brain don't @ me
> 
> 3\. Julian’s singing voice would 100% sound like Zach Condon’s and you cannot convince me otherwise. Just imagine Beirut singing Slow Show. Imagine. IMAGINE. asd;flkhads;lkfjasd;lkfjdlsa 
> 
> kbye see you in temperAnce 2


	11. Temperance, Part 2: Kindred Souls, Cracked Spirits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sia - Numb**
> 
> _CW: No content warnings_

The night was unseasonably warm, the sky starry and lovely; Iris noticed the moon was nearly full as Asra led her and Julian to the hedge maze, feet sure and steady over the impeccably manicured grass of the lawn. The maze had already been decorated for the masquerade, the tall hedgerows now covered over with long lengths of interweaving gauze, indigo, silver, gold, fuchsia. The paths were carpeted with rose petals, dusky pale pink and fuchsia, that released their fragrance under Iris’s bare feet, Julian’s low-heeled boots, Asra’s pointed shoes, as he lead his lovers to the center of the maze. 

Iris gasped when the fountain, the willow, came into view; the statue of Capricorn had been wreathed in fuchsia and dusk-pink roses, white winter lilies and forget-me-nots, as had the handrails of the fountain. Magical lights, gold and silver and white, were suspended under the fountain’s surface, casting an otherworldly glow up the white marble and into the dangling branches of the willow. 

“Oh, Asra...” Iris said, leaning into him, pressing her cheek into his shoulder. “It’s beautiful.” 

Asra chuckled. “While I wish could take credit for Nadi’s eye, this isn’t what I was going to show you.” He lead Iris to the fountain’s edge, the water rippling as they approached; it reflected all three of their faces, Asra and Iris’s side-by-side, Julian’s above them, a hand on both of their shoulders, his expression curious and apprehensive. Colors without name or form swirled through their reflection, distorting it, until Iris could see through to the other side; whitewinter lilies, bobbing in the breeze against a starry night sky. 

Her heart stopped. Asra reached forward and sank a hand into the water, the places where his fingers dipped through glowing white with impact. “It’s been so long since you’ve visited your parent’s altars, Iris... I...I wanted to give you a chance to go on your birthday, like you used to.” His eyes darted to hers, a knowing smile bringing out the little dimples on his cheeks as he tightened his grip on her shaking hands. 

“I...” Iris stammered. “My things. I was...I was going to do a ritual...” 

Behind her, Julian laughed once, a gentle chuckle that rustled Iris’s hair. “I have them. The candles, the incense. If you want to go now.” 

She turned back to him, tears sparkling in her eyes. “How did you...?”

“A hunch.” He kissed her forehead. “I’d like to go with you, if, erm, that’s okay.” He blushed, looked down. “I...I’d like to pay my respects to your parents, too. I, ah, well...I’ve never...” 

She nodded, a hot flush of affection creeping across her chest. “Of course.” She turned to Asra. “Can we go now?” 

Asra only smiled – he leaned forward, dipping his arm in up to the elbow, and Iris felt the pull as her body was sucked into the surface of the water, Julian gripping tightly to her shoulders. They were in the void, starry and airless, weightless, frightening; and then, they landed, Asra and Iris on their feet, poor sweet Julian buckling to his knees, on the hard, dry earth of the cliff. 

It was just as Iris had seen in her memories, her dreams, whitewinter lilies blooming as far as the eye could see, perfuming the air heavily with their rich, feminine scent. The cliff dropped off suddenly, just a few meters away from them; the sea was rolling with gentle waves from the wind, wine-dark, fragrant, roaring, sparkling against the nearly-full moon, hung like a portrait in the clear, twinkling black sky. 

Iris didn’t even notice she was soaked from the fountain until Asra was drying her and Julian off with an incalescence spell; she helped Julian to his feet as he gaped, dumbstruck, at the beauty surrounding him. 

“Iris, you told me of this place, but....” He had no words, only his hand finding hers, fingers interlocking, squeezing gently. 

Iris smiled, nostalgia swirling wildly through her. “This is where I grew up.” She whispered, and kneeled, Asra kneeling by her side, having dried himself off. Three little cairns, each stacked with charred stones, dotted the edge of the cliff. In front of each altar was a cup, a plate, an empty incense holder, and a small gemstone – an orange carnelian, a moonstone, and an opal. 

Julian placed his hand on Iris’s shoulder, dropping back down to his knees, gently this time; he fished the candles and incense out of his suit pocket, made a small sound of disappointment. “I’m so sorry, Iris...they got wet...and I didn’t even think to bring matches...” He said dolefully as he handed them to her. 

She laughed, smiling widely. “I’ve got it, darling.” In her hand, steam puffed out from the incense, and water droplets whipped off of the candles as if they had been shaken; Iris giggled a little and kissed Julian’s cheek as he blushed. She placed a cone in each of the incense holders, and lit them with a snap of her fingers. Asra passed his hand over all three altars; the cups filled with water, and a small mound of salt appeared on each of the plates. Last were the candles, which Iris placed in the little candleholders that made up the final point of the altars. These, too, Iris lit with a snap of her fingers. 

She gathered up the stones, setting them in a pile at her knees, then she fumbled with the fastener of her necklace, taking a few tries with her slightly shaking fingers to unhinge the clasp. This she coiled over the three stones. Asra, with a small smile, took one of the thick silver rings off of his pointer finger, set with an agate, and placed it next to Iris’s necklace. The color rose to Julian’s face, and, for a moment, he fumbled; for an ex-pirate, he rarely, if ever, wore jewelry. He settled for one of his cufflinks, silver set with an oblong onyx stone, which he placed gently with Asra and Iris’s tokens. 

Iris clapped her hands together once, then held them in the prayer position; Julian followed suit, though Asra kept his hands on his knees. “Mum, Dad, Opal...” Iris began. “I turned 25 today. I’m so sorry it’s been so long. So much has happened...but I brought some people I want you to meet...meet again…?” 

She prayed to her family, introducing Julian and Asra. She explained her absence, tears springing up when she told them she had died, lost all her memories...she wondered aloud if she had met them on the other side, as Asra’s strong hand wrapped over her knee, squeezing gently, comfortingly. She told them of her life now, with Asra, her history with Julian, their reunion, and the budding relationship between the three of them. 

She told Opal about the shop, how she and Asra still ran it, with Aster’s occasional help. She told her parents about Nadia and her work at the palace, her work with Julian and Asra previously to stop the Red Plague, the situation they were in now. She asked for their help, their wisdom, their protection. With tears in her eyes, she told them she missed them, that she thought of them every day. 

Julian and Asra each spoke, thanking Iris’s parents and Opal for raising her, for watching over her. Asra told her parents what a light she was in his life, what a brilliant magician she was, that she was headstrong and sensitive and beautiful. Julian thanked them for her gifts, for her empathy and her sweetness, her intellect, her sense of humor; he lamented that he never had a chance to meet them in this world. Then, the two lovers rose, giving Iris some privacy, wandering through the field while she began her more intimate prayers. 

Julian felt himself drawn to the other side of the tiny peninsula, Asra trailing at his side silently, cautiously. Together they pushed through the lilies, guided by the light of the nearly-full moon, until they came upon a clearing, long grown over with vines and tall grass. There was an old well, crank rusted from disuse, and a path from it to a dilapidated stone house, once fine and beautiful, now scorched, the shingled roof long caved, the uneven stones broken and scattered. Inside was nothing but ash and blackened char. 

Julian traced his long fingers over the crumbling doorframe, his fingers coming away grimy and sooty; Asra could see the brand, stark against bone-white skin in the moonlight, as Julian stared at his blackened fingertips. “Does she remember the fire?” Julian asked quietly, lifting his watery gaze to Asra. 

He shook his head. “If she does, she hasn’t said anything. But she must have...some idea, at least, if she remembers this place.” His violet eyes vibrated, recalling Iris waking in a cold sweat, screaming, hyperventilating, pleading for forgiveness as he kissed her calm, soothed her with sweet nothings. 

Julian bit his lip. Asra knew that Julian was recalling similar memories, ones that Asra had seen; Iris jolting awake in a panic, clawing her fingers through her hair, her breath useless in her chest as Julian wrapped his arms around her and walked her back from the ledge. “Someday, she’ll remember. A trauma like this...it never stays buried for long.” The doctor said gravely, his lips pressed together in apprehension.

Asra approached him, his amber hand falling gently on a graceful crooked elbow. “We should head back. I’d rather Iris not see this.” Julian nodded, though he could hardly take his eyes off the house as they turned, started walking back. Asra even shot a glance backward at it, as he wrapped his hand around the bend of Julian’s arm. “When she does remember...we’ll be there for her. Both of us.” 

Julian’s eyes softened, but he said nothing. 

They came back to the small clearing where the altars laid, just as Iris was extinguishing the candles; she stood and brushed off her skirts, tears glittering in her eyes. She started a little as they approached, but she smiled wanly. 

“Thank you...thank you both.” She murmured, brushing a tear away from her eye; she dropped Asra’s ring into his outstretched hand and deftly buttoned the cufflink back onto Julian’s wrist. “For coming with me.” 

Asra smiled, his gaze warm. “Of course, my heart. Happy birthday.” He took her hand, as Julian skillfully clasped the garnet necklace around her neck, his fingers trailing across her back to her shoulder. “Are you ready to go back?” 

Iris nodded, smiling, and Asra and Iris together magicked the three of them into the void with a crack, a spark.

*******

The next morning was a blur. Iris woke late, and alone, her lovers letting her sleep in. She dressed and ate in her room; someone had sent her up breakfast, a waffle covered with macerated barberries and whipped cream kept warm under a cloche etched with a suspension rune.

The halls were bustling with servants, preparing the other rooms in the wing for arriving guests, scrubbing the bathroom and water closets within an inch of their lives, stringing opulent banners, brightly colored lanterns, and sheets of gauze that sparkled as if they were made of gossamer threads of gold and silver. Everywhere Iris went in the palace, she was overwhelmed by the activity; even when she found Vasalisa, laying in a pile with Inanna and Lucio’s lazy sighthounds on the veranda, as she trotted happily alongside Iris as she scoured the halls for a familiar face, she felt lonely, and a little panicky. 

She came upon the hallway that led to the library; mercifully, though the doors were left open, perhaps to air out the room, it was devoid of staff, though it looked as if someone had at least come through and dusted, scrubbed the floors, in case guests somehow wandered in. To her great relief, Iris found Asra here, in his pile of cushions, books stacked around him alongside a scroll that was meters long, coiled like a flattened snake. 

Asra, spotting Iris out of the corner of his eye, turned and smiled gratefully at her. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” He murmured, grabbing her hand and kissing her knuckles as she drew closer to him. “I could use your eyes.” 

“What’s all this?” Iris asked, sinking into the cushions at Asra’s side; Vasalisa plopped down up at her feet, and Faust slithered out of Asra’s creamy silk shirt, settling lazily on Vasalisa’s back. 

Asra sighed. “I was trying to think of ways to stop the ritual. For the ritual to succeed, they need representatives for each of the Arcana.” He gestured to the scroll. “This is everyone who was invited to the masquerade.” 

“You’re kidding, Asra.” Iris said, picking up the scroll, scanning through it. “There’s got to be thousands of names here. You can’t possibly comb through them all.”

“That’s where I could use your help.” Asra explained. “We know who attended the ritual last time.” His deck was in his hands, flipping the major arcana in the formation of the table. “Me, Nadia, Valerius, Muriel. Vlastomil, Ilya, Valdemar, Volta, Vulgora. And Lucio, as the Fool. If we can find everyone else who was supposed to be there, we might be able to warn them.” 

“I think we can assume that those who attended before would be compelled back.” Iris said quietly. “So the Courtiers will be returning tonight.” They still had not been caught from their escape the night after the trial. She breathed a heavy sigh. “What are we doing to protect those who were at the last ritual?” 

Asra raised his eyebrows at Iris, eyes glowing proudly. “I had that same thought. Muriel is much better than me at runes and protections. I’ve asked him to craft protection charms for the representatives, whether they attended last time or not.” 

“Not bad.” Iris said quietly, hoping they would be strong enough to resist a compulsion from the Devil. “And what of the rest of the representatives?” 

A soft, soprano voice cleared their throat, startling both of them; it was Portia. They hadn’t even heard her enter the library. “Nadia’s asked for you two, in her chambers. She’d like an update.” 

Asra sighed, standing and brushing himself off. “She’s not going to like what we have to say.” 

Iris gently touched the back of Asra’s arm as Portia’s face fell. “Maybe Nadia can shine some light on it for us.” Iris said hopefully, gesturing for Portia to lead them. 

Up they went in the swirling, secret stairwell, until they landed in the gleaming hall of Nadia’s wing; it was not decorated, and mercifully empty of staff. At a wide set of gleaming mahogany doors, Portia knocked three times, before sliding one open. “Iris and Asra are here, Nadia.” 

Nadia was at her desk in a simple white gown and a gossamer lace robe thrown over her shoulders, glasses perched on her nose; she smiled, and gestured all of them in. Portia closed the door deftly behind them. 

“Thank you both for joining me.” She said, her eyes sparking from Asra to Iris and back again. “I know you have been working very diligently in the library. What can you tell me about this ritual?” 

Iris zoned out as Asra spoke; it was only when Vasalisa’s warm, wet nose pressed into Iris’s palm, a soft, gentle growl lifting from her throat, that Iris heard something whisper to her. She followed Vasalisa’s sharp gaze to an opulent vanity, nearly twice the size of Iris’s in the guest room, by a window, bottles and drams arranged attractively on its surface. But, in the corner, Iris saw a Tarot deck, one she had never seen before, in a blood-red velvet pouch. 

With a sidelong glance at Asra, she quietly crossed the room, Vasalisa at her heels, hackles up slightly; she could feel all three pairs of human eyes on her, though the conversation didn’t stop as she picked up the deck, sitting on the pouf at the vanity. 

It radiated a sickening, oppressive energy that felt heavy, oily against Iris’s skin as she took it out of the pouch. The deck was, like hers and Asra’s, hand-drawn, but this deck was clearly the work of a professional artist – even the red, black, and silver art deco back was beautifully intricate. Iris flipped over the first card, and gasped softly, fighting back the bile that rose in her throat. 

It was **the Fool** , a 0 emblazoned in silver on the bottom, but the image was of her, her of years past – her long, light hair falling sleek and straight down her back, her full lips parted, her eyelashes long and luscious as she looked through half-lidded eyes – bedroom eyes. She was completely nude, one leg pulled back and an elbow thrown around her knee, the other leg flung forward and swinging playfully as she sat on the cliff’s edge, her bare breasts and sex on full display, drawn and inked in intimate detail. 

“Nadia...” Iris said, interrupting her and Asra’s conversation. “Whose deck is this?” She flipped over the next card – **the Magician**. As Iris suspected, it was an image of Asra, also nude, sex erect, standing imperiously atop a horrifying mound of writhing bodies, arms wrapping sensuously around his planted legs; in one arm were the four suits, a wand, a cup, a pentacle, the sword sheathed at his hip. The other hand pointed up to the stars. Under his foot was a skull, the cranial plates cracked ominously.

“I don’t know.” Nadia said quietly, curiously, standing from her desk. “One of the servants found it in Lucio’s wing as it was being cleaned; I assumed it was yours, or Asra’s. I didn’t look at it; it gave me headaches.” 

Iris strode over to the desk, beckoning for Asra and Portia to join them. She placed **the Fool** and **the Magician** in front of Nadia, and flipped over the third card, another jolt of disgust shaking her. It was Nadia’s image, a thigh-high, leather stiletto-heeled boot planted imperiously on the chest of a pale-skinned man, a whip in hand, the rest of her body adorned in strappy leather. **The High Priestess**.

Portia’s eyes practically bulged out of their sockets. “What _is_ this?” 

“It’s Lucio’s deck.” Asra said, his voice simmering with anger and disgust. “I’d forgotten.” 

Iris’s face split into a wide grin. “That’s what I’d hoped.” She flipped the cards furiously now; they were still in order, and soon, all of the major arcana were spread out in front of them, in the formation they would have been at the ritual’s table. 

Every Satrinava sister was accounted for, along with an older man and woman on **the Empress** and the **Emperor** cards who looked as if they could be Nadia’s parents. On **the Star** card was a woman Iris didn’t recognize, with large, playful eyes, a halo of brown curls against skin paler than even Julian’s, and a slight but sensuous body. 

Iris did recognize one of **the Lovers** : the man from her blackout memories, tall and swarthy and sable-haired, eyes leering and lips parted in a devilish smile. Iris had no memory of the woman in his arms, her long legs wrapped around his hips as they made love, mahogany-brown waves falling over her shoulders, her eyes screwed shut and her pink lips parted around a moan. A soft red haze seemed to cover the card as Iris laid it out on the table. 

And finally, **the Chariot** was a striking older woman with white hair and a tattooed face, swathed in furs, straddling a dead man with a spear through his chest, blood bubbling from his mouth, splattering her face and neck as she rode him, her hand fisted in his hair. 

Iris dropped the rest of the cards with a shudder. “If this is Lucio’s deck...it’s likely that these are who he invited to the ritual as representatives of the Arcana.” She pointed to Valerius on **the Hierophant** , Muriel on **the Hermit** , Julian on **the Hanged Man**. 

“We’ll need more protections.” Asra noted, his eyes scanning the deck. “One for each of your sisters, Nadi. And for the Queen and the Royal Consort of Prakra.” 

“Yes.” Nadia agreed, biting her lips together in thought. “Or should we send my sisters and parents away? Ensure that there are not enough participants to complete the ritual?” 

“That will only prolong the inevitable. And we don’t know how long the Devil’s reach is.” Iris said quietly. “They’ll be safer here, especially if we’re all together. We can protect them.” At her side, Asra nodded in agreement.

“Their absence would be noticed, in any case.” Portia said certainly. “It could cause a panic. With so many people here...” 

“Portia, let’s ensure that each of my sisters and my parents are assigned guards.” Nadia’s eyes flashed. “The Dagger guard. Bludmila’s best.” Portia nodded once, decisively, as Nadia’s hands trailed over the cards, to sylph on **the Star**.

“This is Sabine.” Nadia said quietly. “She has performed at nearly every masquerade since they began 10 years ago. She was a favorite of Lucio’s, and I am rather fond of her as well. She is to perform tonight; it will definitely be noticed if she is not here. She should also be assigned a guard, and given one of dear Muriel’s protections.”

Iris noticed Nadia’s eyes darken with sadness as her eyes fell on **the Lovers**. “I had forgotten about Kiran and Ibai. They were young nobles from Aunamendia, and our friends; we attended their wedding. They died at the plague's height.” 

Asra snorted. “Of course Lucio would associate them with **the Lovers**. They slept with anyone who made eyes at them.” 

Nadia’s eyes narrowed at the memory. “Indeed. Lucio bedded them both. On several occasions, and at the same time, if I recall correctly. Still...” She flipped the card over on the table. “..this means the Lovers are a mystery to us. Unless Lucio managed to raise them from the dead, too, they were not at the ritual.” 

“They could be anyone.” Iris said quietly. She thought of all the times she had drawn the card for her readings in the last two weeks. 

“And I have no idea who this could be.” Nadia mused, fingers now tracing **the Chariot** card. “Though she does not look like someone whose path I want to cross.” Iris couldn’t help but feel that she looked familiar; her clairvoyance swirled up inside her, alighting on the ice-blue eyes, the ash-white hair. A portrait in a gallery, the memory hazy now. 

“Lucy’s mother.” Iris murmured. “Look at her coloring. The shape of her eyes.” 

Portia gasped, and Nadia’s brow furrowed, her lips parted. Asra rubbed Iris’s arm, a small smile flitting across his features. “I think you’re right, Iris.” 

“Lucio never spoke of his family with me.” Nadia muttered. “I assumed they were dead.” 

“She’s alive.” Iris replied, her clairvoyance in this moment cold and shattering, making her shudder. It had never come to her this powerfully before. “And she’ll be here tonight.” 

Nadia nodded. “Indeed she will, dear Iris.” Their eyes met; Iris could see that Nadia’s intuition was firing as hotly, as strongly, as hers. She picked up the card and handed it to Portia. “Give this to the guards; they should all memorize her face. Once she arrives tonight, have her brought to me. She will be informed of everything.” She paused. “And the guard should still be on the lookout for the Courtiers. If Lucio’s mother is compelled here by the ritual, so, too, will they be. I think that will be all, Portia. Please confer with Bludmila at once.” 

Portia’s eyes darted between the three of them, but she nodded, bowed, and bustled out of the room. 

Nadia sighed. “I still fear this is not enough to stop the ritual.” She rubbed her temples with both hands as her mark glowed; a headache was coming on. 

Asra hand squeezed tighter on Iris’s arm, before sliding down to her hand; their fingers interlocked. “For now, this is the best we can do. We’ll know more tonight. Iris and I will keep our eyes and minds open. And I doubt Ilya will let us work alone.”

Nadia’s eyes were far away. “I had so hoped the three of you would be able to enjoy the masquerade. But it seems you will all be on high alert.” 

Iris laid a hand on Nadia’s arm. “Don’t worry about that. There will be so much time for us to relax and enjoy the masquerade once this is all over.” 

The Countess smiled wanly. “I do hope you’re right, dear Iris.” She dismissed them; Iris watched with wary eyes as Nadia laid herself down on the bed with a heavy sigh as they exited the bedchamber.

*******

There wasn’t much they could do but wait; both Iris and Asra agreed it wouldn’t do them any good to strain themselves with extra research now. They lounged on the balcony of the guestroom, enjoying a bit of midday sun, though it was a touch chilly; Asra meditated, and Iris thumbed through her memory box, recalling small bits and pieces: childhood friends, moments with her parents, sweet little milestones with Asra and Julian.

Around noon, Julian returned, bringing up lunch with him, a simple spread of a few cheeses, jams, fruit, bread, and salad; the kitchens were working overtime to get everything prepped for arrival of guests at sundown. He was off for the afternoon, Nazali shooing him off to rest up before the masquerade. After eating, they bathed, taking their time together, idly enjoying the baths before they became crowded with other guests. Back in the guest room, the three of them, still in their bathing robes, slipped into a lazy afternoon daze, Iris and Asra napping while Julian settled in with _The Blind Assassin_ , reading aloud to them until they were both nodding off against his chest. Iris found herself dreaming.

_The maze, again, hedgerows so tall she couldn’t see the sun, the brambles scratching her bare arms, ripping the ashy gauze of her fine dress, the passage growing narrower and narrower with each gasping breath she took. She was running, like her life depended on it, her breath sour and ragged and nothing in her throat, her lung burning, desperate, bursting, her legs shaking, shaking – still, she saw a light ahead of her, hazy and red, blood-tinged, and she lunged for it, skin splitting as she tumbled through the thorns._

_The clearing now, the infinite ways ahead, the hazy bruise-blue fog that clouded her vision, vines warping around her like machinery, humming with cancerous growth, each path narrowing and narrowing and narrowing with each passing second, Iris’s heart tightening and pumping uselessly. Then, in a moment of madness, she turned, forcing her way back through the brambles, clawing, screaming, fighting, fighting back._

_She fell to her knees, hitting dry, summer-cracked soil, the grasses under her crinkling as she retched into the dirt, strings of bile falling from the corners of her mouth. She smelled chalk, and lilies, but only faintly, and as if they had been baked in the sun. But more than anything, she smelled ash, ash and ember. Fire._

_Iris snapped to attention with a crack, her eyes wild as they scanned the horizon in front of her. A house, elegant but austere stone, a steep shingled roof, stark on a cliff with the starry sea sprawled out behind it, nestled in the calm, verdant chaos of a well-cultivated garden. It was still, only the moon in her rippling cloak on the water, the stilted swaying of the cracked grasses. It was quiet, too, not even the reedy whisper of insects to sweeten the night._

_Iris stood on wobbly knees, panting and brows furrowed – the scene was idyllic, beautiful, but it left achingly, achingly empty, as if she would never feel okay again, as if she herself were made of void, magnetic, sucking, gaping nothing. She had no words for this feeling, for the way it wrecked her, for the way her chin wobbled but no tears came._

_At her side, a soft chuckle. Iris froze at the sound, every nerve screaming. Breath, hot, acid, on her ear, and Iris swore, the wetness of tongue. “What did you do now, kiddo?” The voice growled, animal, braying, laughing, and the world exploded around her, her ears ringing with the cacophony of shattered windows, splintered wood, the unstoppable roar of flames..._

When Iris awoke with a jolt, it was late afternoon; the sun hung low in the sky, and she was still draped over Julian’s chest. The book hung limply in his hand, settled against his bare stomach; he had really done a number on it, practically in the third act before he had finally fallen asleep, his head back and neck long against the headboard. Asra was curled up on Julian’s other side, like a cat in a sunbeam, his body somehow both long and contorted, his leg intertwined lazily with one of Julian’s. For a few minutes, Iris just laid there, catching her breath, so, so grateful she had woke neither of them with her dreaming. 

She tried to draw the images back to her as they threatened to receded back to the realm of sleep...the maze, again, again, Iris’s skin prickled remembering the way they’d felt so real, her fingers trailing over the bare of her arms, searching for scars. The clearing, the paths, but this time they were closing. She...turned back...and then? All she could remember of that was the smell of fire, the moon reflecting on water…

With a frustrated sigh, Iris let her head fall softly back onto Julian’s chest, her fingers still tangled in Asra’s. Her dreams had always been particularly vivid, but since...since the readings, two weeks ago now, they had been unsettling, insistent, leaving Iris waking feeling exhausted and, sometimes, remembering nothing of them. At her side, Asra let out a little groan, the tiniest of stretches; Iris felt herself warm, soften, and she put it away. She let out a stretch of her own, and looked up to glance around their room. What she saw made her gasp. 

Someone had been in; either Portia or Ami and Primula, dropping of their costumes for the masquerade. Gently, she sat up, the mattress bobbing only slightly as she alighted from it to get closer. All three costumes were achingly, impossibly beautiful, easily the finest things Nadia had ever commissioned for them. Julian’s suit was impeccably tailored, a double-breasted black jacket edged with gold, the collar woven with inky faux feathers; the jacket itself stopped just at the hips, but more feathers were woven beautifully into the hem, some extending dramatically over the hips all the way down to the knee. The pants were simple, black and slim-fit, detailed with gold thread – they would bring out his long legs, emphasize his height – and the suit was paired with low, patent-leather boots, a white silk shirt, a fuchsia ascot, and supple black leather gloves. His mask was the embroidered, feathered one Iris had seen in previous memories; the sight of it made her heart flutter. 

Asra’s outfit was fantastical, a high-necked shirt of gauzy lavender fabric that was practically see-through, the sleeves puffing out extravagantly, only to taper into elegant white gloves that extended up to the elbow. There was a long, lilac vest, hemmed in wide ribbons of gold, designed to sit wide on his shoulders, highlighting the delicate taper of his waist; there was a broad expanse of shimmering fuchsia fabric tied around the vest, surely meant to be worn like a belt. And lastly, there was a white silk skirt with a slight train that billowed gently in the night breeze, paired with pointed slippers of the same color. A fox mask, painted with gold flake and decorated with white tassels and amethysts at the cheekbones, completed the look.

Iris hardly had words for the last piece, her dress; it was a gown and cape of diaphanous black fabric, and embellished all over with a riot of iridescent pearls of all sizes, cascading down her arms, her stomach, her legs, her back, to lushly embroidered purple-throated irises at the hem, so shimmery and dewy-looking that Iris thought, for a moment, that they were actually wet. The dramatic v-shaped neckline plunged to her sternum, where slim straps of thicker black fabric like ribbon held the bodice to the skirt, revealing her ribs. Around her navel were several slender moons of white and silver velvet, with one over each shoulder. The cups of the bodice and the skirt were both lined with a soft nude fabric with a very light purple sheen, and her slippers were the same color, edged in black lace. Her wolf mask, crafted so lovingly by Muriel, complemented the gown beautifully.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see you in that.” A sly, silky baritone behind her purred. Iris turned; Asra was rubbing his eyes sleepily, but his full lips were already snaking into an impish grin. At the rumble of his voice, Julian stirred with a soft groan, instinctually tightening his grip on Asra’s shoulder, burying his face in plush white hair before blinking his good eye open. 

“What time is it?” He muttered, voice leaden. He straightened a little, glancing out the window; the sun was beginning its descent into night. “It’s probably about time we started getting ready. The gates will open soon.” 

Despite the intricacy of their clothing, they made rather quick work of dressing, Julian zipping up Iris’s dress while she tied Asra’s sash over his vest, his waist. She traced her fingers over the opulent, indulgent embroidery of his shirt, palm lingering against his chest. 

“My heart...” She murmured. She felt Julian perk up slightly behind her; he was raffishly handsome in his dark feathers, his buttons still undone, his ascot hanging around his shoulders. “What will we do if the ritual succeeds?” An image flashed briefly through her, hot as fire, breath and wet on her ear, a growling voice she couldn’t understand.

Asra smiled gently, sadly. “We figure it out.” He gently fixed Iris’s cape over her shoulders. “Death said that she and the other Arcana will step in if need be. I think...we need to trust in their plan, if ours doesn’t work.” 

Behind them, Julian snorted. “That’s a lot of trust to put in a capricious group of demigods.” 

Iris turned to him, and deftly buttoned the gilded fasteners on his silk shirt. “They brought us all together, didn’t they?” She murmured, looking up at him through her long eyelashes. “ _The Lovers_. I drew them that first night in the Raven, when I read for you.” 

“Two weeks ago.” Julian murmured softly. Iris felt Asra’s fingers against her spine, something cool against her neck; he had fished several long strands of pearls out of the jewelry box, draping them artfully against her clavicle, her breastbone. She silently admired his eye. 

“Yes.” Iris said quietly now. “Only two weeks ago.” She smoothed her hands over Julian’s jacket, having buttoned both rows, all the way down to his hips; he was so handsome that she ached, even with his hair tousled wildly from sleep – _especially_ with his hair tousled wildly from sleep. “It feels like a lifetime. My darling son of wands.” 

His cool fingers cupped her cheek, his gray eye roving over her chest, half-exposed by her gown and now covered in pearls. A flush rose on his cheeks, even as a smirk cut across his features. “My deadly starstrand.” He murmured softly.

She swatted him lightly, a smirk of her own turning up the corner of her lips, as she turned to her vanity, dotting the perfume on her wrists and neck, before selecting the large amethyst earrings Nadia had gifted her (no doubt intended to be worn with this exact dress). Just as she was securing the last fastening, a knock resounded on the door before it slid open; it was Ami and Primula. 

Ami descended on Iris while Primula fussed over her lovers; Ami quickly, expertly powdered Iris’s face, painting her in rouge and kohl and, with an artful gleam in her eye, a fuchsia lip paint the same color as Asra’s sash, Julian’s ascot, the color of midsummer eggplants. Iris was shocked when Ami started slicking her hair to the side with a stiffening hair oil, creating a deep, curved part that ran from Iris’s temple to her crown. Then, she placed the pearl headdress from Navra and Nasmira in her part, curving beautifully inward, emphasizing her cheekbones, her brow; Iris almost gasped seeing herself in the mirror, at how different she looked with her hair away from her face. Her dark brows were stark against her light skin, the fuchsia and rose pink warming her beige complexion up, her large eyes opened with the soft winged kohl liner. 

With an approving nod from Ami, Iris stood, turning back to Asra and Julian. Primula had attempted to slick back Asra’s wild hair, to moderate success; his strong brow, his white, arched eyebrows, were visible, though his curls still sprang up willfully in the back. Primula had also expertly navigated Julian’s eyepatch and his mask, finding a solution that seemed the best of both worlds; rearranging the feathers of his mask and his hair so he could see through them, but his red sclera wasn’t visible. 

Both of them gaped at her, making Iris blush; Julian let out a soft, low whistle, gray eye glowing with adoration, but it was Asra’s parted lips, vibrating eyes, that nearly made Iris swoon as he pulled her in for a brief kiss, careful not to smudge her lipstick. 

“I don’t even have words for how beautiful you are.” He whispered. “It’s like you’re not real.” 

“I’m real.” She said softly. “You’re the one who looks unreal.” Asra looked like royalty, his skin smooth and gleaming, his most beautiful features amplified; he almost looked like a completely different person to Iris. 

Ami cleared her throat softly. “The first dance is about to start.” She said softly. “Are you ready to take your places?” 

Iris’s brows furrowed. “Places?” 

“Oh no.” Asra turned to Julian, an amused smile spreading across his face. “I didn’t tell her. Did you?” 

Julian chuckled. “I forgot, too.” 

Iris’s brows couldn’t knit any closer together. “Tell me _what_?”

“Well...” Asra said, his hand on Iris’s waist. “Traditionally, the masquerade is opened with a dance for just the Count and his Courtiers.” 

“...But there’s no Count, and no Courtiers.” Julian said, with a raise of his eyebrows. “So this year, Nadia invited all her sisters to open the masquerade with her.” 

“And the three of us.” Asra finished. “The practice was on an afternoon you slept through.” 

Iris felt the color rush to her cheeks. “I’m not that good a dancer. I can’t just...pick it up in a few minutes.” 

Ami and Primula opened the sliding door to the room, and Asra and Julian whisked her out, Asra fastening her mask to her brow as Julian slipped Asra’s carefully over his slicked-back hair. “Asra is your partner, and you won’t be leading on this one. Follow him.” Julian whispered to her. “And don’t lose your balance.” 

Iris was about to say something, but suddenly Asra was kissing her goodbye, his warm lips pressed against her cheek, and Julian was leading her down a long blur of elegantly dressed, startlingly beautiful people, placing her second in the line. 

“I’m just down the line.” He whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth in good-luck, and good-bye. “You’ll be brilliant. Just do what comes naturally. See you in a bit.” He winked at her – it didn’t quite work, with his obscured eye, but Iris smirked all the same – before he scurried down to the fifth place in line, but not before planting a quick, playful peck on the cheek of the woman ahead of Iris. 

She was short and buxom, her long, curly red hair piled in high bun at her crown, a few tendrils escaping around her temples. Her gown seemed to be made entirely of liquid gold, a luscious band across the bust tying into a bow at her back that reminded Iris of a massive butterfly – her skirt was dripping in jewels, sapphires and rubies and pearls, all embroidered onto the same silky orange-gold. She jumped as Julian kissed her, turning and blushing furiously, but he was too far away to smack, or even verbally berate. Iris could see a giant trilliant-cut ruby was nestled above her freckled breasts, stark against the soft blue of her light eyes, obscured by a white and gold cat-shaped mask adorned with red velvet ribbons.

“Portia?” Iris whispered quietly. She wheeled around; her eyes wide with happiness. 

“Iris!” She cried, hugging her friend. “You look like an absolute snack...no, like a whole damn meal. I knew the pearls would be a good choice. Navra fussed over them quite a bit.” Portia squinted for a moment, licked her thumb, and pressed it over a stray hair against Iris’s temple. 

“You clean up pretty nicely yourself.” Iris said with a laugh, smoothing one of the errant curls behind Portia’s ear. “Are you Nadia’s partner?” 

Portia blushed furiously, and Iris laughed, reminded again of Julian. And suddenly, the music started, a crescendoing swell of vielles, and Portia’s eyes widened. She gripped Iris’s hands tightly. “Count to 16 after I leave. Then go. Look for Asra.” She turned, dusted herself off, and parted the curtain. Then she was gone. 

Iris couldn’t help herself; she counted to four, then peeked her head around the curtain. They were at the head of one of the sweeping sets of stairs down to the ballroom, which was absolutely, dizzyingly packed with bodies. Iris felt her breath catching in her throat, her eyes swimming, when a hand fell on her back. 

“Just remember that they all piss and shit and make stupid faces when they fuck, just like you.” A warm voice whispered in her ear; she turned around, and was shocked to find a dark-skinned man, well past middle-aged, with a long, thick gray beard and lined, kind brown eyes, all under a white turban held together with a gleaming emerald on a long pin. 

“Don’t miss your cue, now, beauty.” He whispered. “14...15...16...” and then he nudged her gently forward, by the shoulder, and she stepped through the curtain, just as Asra emerged on the other side. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, and he nodded gently, stepping slowly to the beat down the steps, Iris following suit. There was a small burst of applause as, at the place where the steps met and curved into the ballroom, Nadia and Portia had taken each other’s hand, Nadia in a dazzling black dress with a dramatic neckline of feathers, edged in gold and red, perfectly complementing Portia’s gown. Nadia led Portia down the stairs into the ballroom, as Asra’s hand found Iris’s at the apex of the stairs. 

“Perfect.” He whispered to her, his eyes glowing with pride and devotion under his gold mask. There was another swell of applause; dimly, Iris heard a crier announce them to the audience: _Magicians and friends of the court, Iris Keshet and Asra Niraj-Alnazar_.

They descended the staircase gracefully, Asra leading, and they took their place on the dancefloor, directly behind Portia and Nadia, and turned back to the stairs, waiting for the rest of the dancers. There was the man who had helped Iris, arm in arm with the most regal, towering woman Iris had ever seen, taller even than Nahara; the last and eldest Satrinava princess, a gauzy white headdress over her light pink hair, her rich flowing robes. Natiqa was next, with the afroed Kashtan woman, the first seat of the Juris. Next was Nazali, in a pantsuit of red, with Julian on their arm, both smirking dashingly; Julian winked at Iris and Asra lovingly as he passed the two of them to his place on the floor. 

Iris gasped at the next couple, gripping Asra’s arm hard and grinning stupidly; it was Nasmira and Muriel, both blushing intensely under their masks, Muriel in a dark, embroidered suit of brown and gold and a brown bear mask, Nasmira in soft gold and green, wearing a lion’s mask, the mane of fresh flowers, dusky roses and asters. Asra chuckled, pressing a kiss into Iris’s temple, radiating happiness for his friend. 

Then it was Navra, with a petite Nipponese woman in an orange kimono with a silky black bob, and lastly, Nahara with a tall, yellow-haired suitor in a gorgeous, black and yellow embroidered suit. 

Everyone was in formation now, the six sisters positioned in a half moon, Iris and Asra in the center, and Nadia and Portia in front of them, closest to the audience. Nadia took Portia’s hands, and they curtsied to each other as the strings swelled again; Iris turned to Asra, just as he dropped gracefully to one knee, presenting his hand to her. Iris blushed, and took it; their fingers interlaced, his palm so warm against hers, as he placed his hand on her waist and swept her into his arms. His gaze smoldered so passionately, so lovingly, as a soft voice, singing in sweet, lilting Alba, lifted above the strings. On the steps appeared the curly-haired, heart-shaped face of the woman from Lucio’s **the Star** card, her petite frame swathed in champagne-pink sequins, lips parted with song. 

Asra lead Iris through the steps, in perfect unison with the other dancers; together, they swayed and swirled in place gracefully. Just like every other time the two of them had danced together, Iris found it so easy, so natural to follow his lead. 

“See? You were worried.” He whispered in her ear. “But you know just what to do.” 

“I have a good partner.” Iris replied, smirking a little as she laid her head on his shoulder. She felt, rather than heard, the soft laughter that rumbled through his chest. 

“Maybe.” He said with a sly wink. “But we used to dance so much. I think your body remembers.” 

As if to illustrate, he spun her, so her back ended up pressed into his back, their arms crossed; Iris didn’t miss a step, sidling easily against his hips. She marveled a moment at her clever feet, before Asra pressed his cheek into her hair, inhaling deeply.

“I’ve missed this. It feels so natural to dance with you. As if our bodies were made to move together.” He murmured as he spun her back, in perfect unison with the other dancers. “So many masquerades, so many parties here at the palace, we danced just like this.” 

“How many masquerades did we attend together?” Iris asked, pulling back a little, meeting his gaze. 

Iris felt the errant strand of hair slink back into place with a caress of Asra’s magic, like cool water, that lingered on her skin. “We went nearly every year. Maybe not for every night, but at least for one. The first was when you turned 16. Opal stayed up night after night after you’d gone to sleep to sew you a gown for your birthday. I made your mask. You were so gangly, still, with these long, skinny legs; we decided you should be a fawn. Your dress was made of brown velvet, your hair was threaded through with pearls, and I...I had to be so careful.” He blushed deeply. “I could hardly take my hands off you that night. You were radiant. Beautiful. Just as you are now.” 

Suddenly, Asra’s eyes widened as the music changed, swelled into the chorus, signaled by the chimes of finger cymbals. “Almost missed the cue...” He murmured playfully, spinning Iris out on his arm. Iris was shocked when another hand grabbed her wrist just as Asra let go, and she was spun into Julian’s arms. Everyone had changed partners, Asra now dancing with Nadia, Portia with Muriel, the headspinning array of consorts and Princesses all shifted, like a kaleidoscope. 

Julian chuckled at Iris’s wide eyes. “It’s nice to follow sometimes, isn’t it?” His hand settled at the crest of her hip, guiding her hips to his, his gloved fingers interlocking with hers. 

Iris’s lips turned up to a small smile as they swayed to the music. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She asked, eyebrows arched coyly.

He laughed now, his single bark echoing a little through the ballroom. “I’ve...I've been remembering. My memories of before." His voice softened. "You were fierce then, my darling. You craved autonomy. If someone demanded you to do something, you’d do the opposite; you were like a housecat, everything always on your terms, your decision. It was honestly...one of the most attractive things about you. And the most frustrating.” He sighed now, expression starry and nostalgic, even under his feathered mask. “In some ways, you and Asra were a lot alike.” 

It was Iris’s turn to bark laughing now. “You keep saying were. If anyone ever calls me a shrinking violet...” 

“You’re not. I don’t think you could ever be.” Julian said, and Iris could practically feel the warmth of the affection in his gaze. “But you’re different now. Softer. You can move with the current, where before you would try to fistfight the sea.” 

Iris felt a tug of despondency, like a red thread needling through her heart. “I wish I could remember. What I used to be like.” 

The corners of Julian’s lips dropped, his eyes sad and sweet. “I would love nothing more than to share those memories with you again.” He kissed her once, on the forehead, and then she was spinning away again, and another arm caught her wrist, pulling her in. 

It was the crown Princess of Prakra, nearly two meters tall and in her mid-forties, enveloped in a shimmery pale pink shroud and an otherworldly gold headdress, dripping in gold jewelry; but it was her eyes, ochre and piercing, that nailed Iris to the floor, even as the Princess took her hands and pulled her in a little closer, guiding her expertly, if absentmindedly. 

“You are the magician, Iris. The Fool.” The Princess said, not a question, her unblinking gaze boring into Iris. “You came to me in a dream.” 

“You’re precognizant?” Iris said quietly, her voice returning, as the Princess dipped Iris skillfully; she was surprisingly strong. 

“Most call me Nafizah.” The Princess said with the slightest amused twinkle in her eyes, the light from the chandeliers above them haloing around her ombred hair. “Yes, I am precognizant, as is my mother, and dear Didi.” She lifted Iris back to her feet as the music swelled again. 

“What did you see in the dream?” Iris asked, her brows furrowed.

Nafizah smiled, almost absentmindedly, as her starry-eyed gaze receded to the horizon. “Dreams of seeing are mostly symbols, Iris, and they demand or defy interpretation...but you know this intimately, don’t you, little light?” The images flashed across Iris’s eyes again, brambles, lilies, ash, and she swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. 

Nafizah’s smile didn’t abate. “But this dream was clear. It was of the end of times. You, and your lovers, the magician and the doctor, were beings of light, fighting to stop it, glowing with righteousness. The three of you...” Her eyes softened, returning her gaze to Iris. “You have all given up so much. You will be asked to give up more. Oh, the path in the light is not without sacrifice...”

“Did we stop the end of the world?” The question rushed from Iris breathlessly, her heart pounding in her chest. 

The Princess looked amused, again. “Oh, it would do no good to spoil the ending, little light.” There was another chorus of finger cymbals, and Nafizah’s intense, unblinking gaze met Iris’s once more. “It was lovely to meet you, magician Iris.” She spun Iris out on her arm, and another hand grabbed her wrist; this time, she was whirled into Nadia’s arms. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Asra and Julian partnered together, just meters away, their intimacy simmering, palpable. 

The music was swelling to the bridge now, as Nadia’s eyes narrowed playfully. “What did you think of my sister Nafizah, dear Iris? I believe it is the first time you’ve met.” 

Iris gulped. “...She told me she saw the end times.” 

Nadia snorted, but Iris could feel the slightest tinge of anxiety in her voice. “That sounds like Nafizah. She never shied away from her powers, from sharing her visions. Once, when I was five, she told me I would live a life of shadows and secrets.” The anecdote was meant to be funny, but Iris felt the sadness, the pain in Nadia’s voice arc through her. 

“Did you always hide your sight?” Iris asked Nadia quietly, as Nadia held out her arm, and Iris twirled on it gently like a ballerina in a music box. “Nafizah mentioned that you were precognizant. You and your mother.” 

Nadia’s eyelashes fluttered, as she looked carefully down at Iris. “My family always encouraged my sight, but I hid my power from Lucio. I did not want to be used the way I saw him use his court magicians. He was always obsessed with magic, from the moment I met him, even though he had no aptitude nor patience for it himself.” 

“And you hid it for so long it left you?” Iris asked quietly, returning to Nadia’s arms, hand on her feathered, embroidered waist. 

Nadia sighed. “Yes. It is what I asked the High Priestess for. She returned it to me gladly, in exchange for the memories of my marriage.” 

“But your memories, and your sight. They’ve both returned to you.” Iris said, her brows furrowed thoughtfully. “The High Priestess must really favor you.” 

“She has always been a kind patron to me, since I was very young.” Nadia’s garnet eyes rose to Iris now. “This talk is too sad for the masquerade, Iris. I fully intend for you, Asra, and Ilya to have a good time tonight. Don’t worry yourself over the details of my sordid past.” 

Iris snorted. “As long as you’re my friend, Nadia, at least know you won’t have to face your sadness alone.” 

“Oh, dear Iris.” Nadia’s lips curled into a genuine smile. “I know. I’ve seen.” Iris was spun again, and this time, she landed back in Asra’s arms, his gentle hands pulling her in close. 

“Welcome back.” He whispered, kissing her forehead. They were silent, for a moment, just dancing gracefully together, when Iris noticed Asra was humming. 

“Do you know this song?” She asked, smirking. When Asra’s eyes fell on her, she was almost overwhelmed with the love she felt. 

“You loved this song when you were younger. You used to sing it all the time. When we first met. You’d sing it in the bath, thinking no one could hear you. You and Opal would sing it together when you were cooking or doing chores, tending the shop. You’d hum it while you were studying.” Then, just as the song was ending, Asra dipped Iris and sang the last lines in her ear, so softly, so sweetly, in his heavily accented Alba; “ _Rydw i mewn cariad a byddaf bob amser…_ ”

Just as all the dancers struck their last pose, there was a wild, popping sound, as short-range fireworks shot off from the ceiling, balloons and glimmering clouds of glittering pigment, reds and oranges and purples, falling slowly from the ceiling, leaving Iris breathless. 

Asra and Iris kissed, briefly, before he righted her and swept her off the dancefloor; already, the music had changed, something more powerful, with more bass, more percussion, and the partygoers were rapidly filling the space cleared for the first number so they could dance. By the time Asra and Iris had reached the edge of the room, the entire ballroom was packed, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, with drunk, dancing Vesuvians, each costume more opulent, more outlandish, more ostentatious than the last. 

“Come on.” Asra said quickly, taking Iris’s hand. “I told Ilya we’d meet him in the mystery food room.” 

Asra shouldered them through a door adjoining the ballroom, to a much less crowded room with one long table laden with what looked like music boxes of all shapes and sizes, some beautifully gilded and opulent, some rough and wooden, and everything in between. At the center of the table, examining a box painted sky blue and dotted with cottony clouds, was Julian. His eyes lit up when he saw the two of them, and waved them over; Iris saw that he had already procured three glasses of wine, a dry white for Asra, a deep red for him, and for Iris, something she had never seen before, a glittering, almost opalescent pink wine. 

“Iris, try this. I think it’s Franc field bread.” He opened the box for her, and she saw that the contents of the box were obscured by shimmering white light. Iris hesitated before reaching into the box; the light dissipated with a soft wash of heat against her skin, and in her hand was a large piece of white, flaky bread, the crust sprinkled with poppy seeds and lavender buds. It smelled delicious, and it tasted divine. 

“What did you think of the opening dance?” Asra asked Iris; Julian slipped his hand around Asra’s waist, squeezing him a little closer as he picked up a heavy box that looked as if it were constructed out of slabs of pink marble. Julian leaned into the box and sniffed, a beautiful grin lighting up his features. 

“Iris, you’d like this one, too.” He said, gray eye glittering under his mask. “But you’ll want a fork, I think.” Iris took one of the gilded forks from one of the piles placed strategically around the groaning table, and dug in; she found tubes of pasta coated in a pink sauce reminiscent of the marble, tasty and comforting, creamy, and slightly spicy. She considered her answer to Asra’s question as she chewed. 

“It was lovely, mostly. Meeting Princess Nafizah was...interesting.” She murmured, before taking another bite of the pasta. Asra’s brows furrowed, a look of consternation overwhelming his striking features. 

“How so?” He asked, as Julian picked up a black box, shimmery like an oil slick, that contained two black rice hand rolls wrapped in ink-black seaweed and dolloped with saffron-yellow uni. He dangled one of these in front of Asra’s mouth, and Asra took a bite with a playful smile, but his attention was divided. 

Julian offered the other roll to Iris; she shook her head. “You have to eat too, darling.” She said with a knowing wink.

Julian raised his eyebrows. “Pick something for me, then.” 

With a half-smile, Iris accepted the bite; the uni was much saltier than she expected, even as it melted in her mouth. “She told me she had seen me, in a dream. An ominous dream.” Iris said quietly, picking up a box of her own, one that felt quite cold and had a small suspension rune on the bottom. Each side was painted in eyewateringly bright geometric designs of silver, turquoise, red, and green, and when she leaned down to smell, she felt as if she were standing right next to the ocean, it was so briny. She reached in and pulled out three raw oysters on the half shell, dressed lightly in a mignonette sauce. She handed one to each of her lovers; as if taking a shot together, they clinked their oysters together, prying the delicate flesh away with their tongues before sucking it from the shell. 

Asra wrapped his hand around Iris’s waist as they opened more boxes; a flaky pastry stuffed with mushroom paste, pan-fried noodles with sausage and pickled cabbage, extremely spicy crumbled tofu and pork served over rice. “Did she tell you what she saw in this dream?” Asra asked her quietly.

Iris gulped, taking a sip of her wine, light and floral, flavored with rose petals, hibiscus. “She said it was of the end times. That we were beings of light. That we would have to sacrifice.” 

“That is ominous.” Julian said, opening a gold-edged box of sunset red. This was the first thing he kept for himself; a delicate, palm-sized lobster roll on a flaky, buttery biscuit. 

“She was very nonchalant about it.” Iris said, with pursed, thoughtful lips. “She was hard for me to get a read on.” 

Asra chuckled. “She is notoriously difficult to read, even for clairvoyants. And it’s not in her nature to worry. Every time I’ve met her, she’s said something rather foreboding with a smile on her face.” 

Iris’s face fell. “That may be true...but she’s right. We need to stop this ritual from happening. I can’t just sit by while we wait for the Devil to dissolve the liminal spaces.” 

Asra kissed her cheek, just as Julian fed her another bit of food from between two pearly seashells, something creamy and sweet, drizzled in saffron syrup and spiked with almonds. “We can’t fight the Devil on an empty stomach.” Asra said sweetly, his eyes narrowed playfully. “Besides...we have a plan.” 

“Oh?” Iris said, her brows raised, her eyes wide. “What plan?” 

Asra and Julian’s eyes met, briefly, in a sidelong glance. It was Julian who spoke. “Both of our memories of the last masquerade are pretty hazy, but we thought we might try to retrace our steps. We were both at the ritual. We might find something that could help stop it.” 

Iris thought for a moment. “That’s not a bad idea. Were you both in the first dance that year?” 

“We were.” Asra said quietly. “And then we were ushered into this room. Lucio was too sick to dance, but he wasn’t too sick to receive guests. According to him.” 

“Even though he looked like a boiled shoe.” Julian said with a dark sneer. 

Iris chewed thoughtfully on a starfruit, extracted from a box of chartreuse etched glass. “And have you regained anything?” 

Asra sighed, and Julian shook his head, his gaze firm. “Maybe we’ll have better luck in the next room. Sabine’s room.” 

Iris raised a coy eyebrow now. “Were you two together the whole masquerade?” 

“I think Ilya was stalking me.” Asra said, lips curled up teasingly as he turned to Julian, who blushed ferociously. 

“It, erm...it was a coincidence...” Julian stammered; Iris giggled as Asra wiggled his eyebrows, but said nothing. 

“Where is Sabine’s room, then?” Iris asked; she was getting quite full, she realized, as she took another sip from her wine. 

“It’s just down the hall.” Julian said, still blushing; he took Iris’s hand. “Stay close. It’s easy to get separated in these crowds.” And the three of them slipped out into the masquerade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: writing dancing is weird y'all. that's it. dancing is weird. see you in part 3


	12. Temperance, Part 3: Sweet Words and Fevers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mitski - Two Slow Dancers**
> 
> _CW: Drug abuse, addiction, sexual assault/unwanted touching, allusions to rape, rough sex, breath play_

Iris wouldn’t have used the word crowd to describe the crush of beautiful people packed into the vaulted marble hallways, now draped in a web of dark streamiers, indigo and magenta and gold. Julian, tall and broad-chested, easily wove between partygoers, Iris and Asra sticking close behind, slipping through in his wake. The costumes were so dazzling that Iris felt like her head was on a swivel as she drank in every detail. She saw men and women masquerading as dragons, their robes and masks woven beautifully with shimmering scales, one man’s costume a riot of red crepe, like flames, a rising phoenix, and one Busanese woman, memorably, dressed as a mermaid, her long, flowing skirt opalescent and iridescent, her hair magically slicked down her bare back, her breasts only covered with starfish pasties, her skin shimmering. 

And then Julian was ushering the two of them through a large set of double doors, into one of Nadia’s larger receiving rooms, with blonde, parquet wood floors and tall, beautiful painted-copper ceilings, now draped with dark blue fabric embroidered with four-pointed stars. The furniture had all been removed and at the end of the room was a small stage dotted with instruments: a tall violone on a sturdy stand, a set of several drums, a vihuela, a calace, three brass instruments on chairs, and a bandoneon. There was no one on the stage yet the room was packed with partygoers, the soft susurrus of their murmurs and laughter roaring in Iris’s ears as they waited for Sabine to take the stage.

“Looks like she hasn’t made it back from the opening number yet.” Julian murmured, wrapping his arm around Iris’s shoulders and drawing her in closer to him; Asra cinched his arm around Iris’s waist so she was sandwiched comfortably between the two of them on the periphery of the room. 

And then, with a roar from the crowd, Sabine entered, flanked by a group of women musicians who took their places at each of the instruments. The sylphlike musician took her place at the center of the stage, and, with a soft, breathy voice, purred to the crowd, “Welcome to the Masquerade...” 

The musicians behind her struck up a tune, full of bass and drums and brass, and the folks on the floor paired up quickly, dancing in partners to the flamboyant, sensual flamenco. When she opened her mouth to sing, her voice was strong and throaty, sexy, beautiful; she raised her arms above her head in a dramatic gesture and undulated her hips in a slow roll as the music swelled into an electric fervor. 

Iris felt Asra’s lips on her ear, and he whispered, “I was on the other side of the room. I’m going to go investigate; I’ll see you in a little bit.” With a quick kiss, a gentle squeeze of her hand, he was gone, weaving through the dancers, his white hair bobbing across the room. 

It was just her and Julian now; she could feel his body pulsing faintly with the beat of the music. Iris turned to him, one eyebrow arched coyly. “And what were you doing, darling?” 

“Dancing, of course.” He crooned, drawing her into his arms, his hands tracing down her waist, her back, to her hips; he drew them to his, pressing their chests together. “Let me show you.” 

Julian lead her through the crowd of dancers to the center of the dancefloor, as Sabine’s song reached a fever pitch, a more rapid, torrid cadence, the drums pounding, the bass throbbing, her sweet voice rising above the sound, lyrics full of passion and longing. Julian snapped Iris’s hips to his, one hand snaking up to the small of her back, the other grasping her hand as he lead her through the steps, two long steps forward, four short steps back on their toes, his hips gently guiding her into the beat of the song. 

“Who were you dancing with at the last masquerade?” Iris asked mischievously, her chest pressed against his chest, her legs sliding against his legs, as they tangoed.

Julian drew her into a dramatic lunge, one knee between his, her other leg splayed long behind her. “I don’t remember his name.” He said coyly, eye sparkling. “But he was handsome. Long, wavy strawberry-blonde hair. Dressed as a lion. He had such strong arms, spun me like clay on a potter’s wheel.” 

Iris raised an eyebrow, a smirk snaking across her lips. “Oho. So you weren’t leading?” She teased as Julian pulled her into a dip; she wrapped her leg around his hip, pulling him so close she could feel the familiar planes of his pelvis, his hips, rubbing against hers. 

“No. I wasn’t leading.” He said with a little smile, his eye cloudy and far away, remembering, as he gracefully brought Iris back upright. “He lead me.” 

“Maybe you should let me lead, then.” Iris said with a grin. She shifted her hips, breaking pace with Julian, and pulled him to her; he didn’t resist, letting her mold him to her movements, the circles she drew with her hips to the beat, the steps she took over. “So you can remember.” She purred, with a wink.

Julian sighed softly, letting his eyes close, his lips dip into her hairline. “I love it when you take the lead, Iris.” He murmured. Iris guided him through another lunge, this time with Iris’s hands on Julian’s back, his arms around her waist, his impossibly long legs stretched out, his elegant neck rolled back, beautiful and muscular. 

When Iris pulled him back up, he was flushed; Iris turned around and pressed her back to his chest, swiveling her hips against his, a small smirk playing on her lips as he traced his hands tentatively over her waist, the bare skin of her ribs. “Is anything coming back to you?” She asked, with a raised eyebrow, a knowing grin. Against the rise of her ass, the small of her back, she could feel him stirring. 

His eye flashed devilishly. “I am a little distracted.” He muttered into her ear, his gaze ardent as his eyes roved over Iris’s shoulders, her neck, her breasts. “You could start a war, darling, you look so beautiful tonight.” 

Iris turned back around, looking up to him, as the music dropped into a soft instrumental interlude. “As flattering as that is...try to focus on your memories.” Iris whispered, running her hands up his chest before wrapping her arms around his neck. “Can you remember anything about him? Anything that might help jog your memory?” 

Julian shook his head gently. “Nothing’s coming to me. Nothing but...” Suddenly, his body went slightly rigid in Iris’s arms. She stopped moving, her heart pounding, as Julian’s visible eye darted to and fro wildly, as if he was dreaming; as suddenly as he stopped, he shuddered back to life. 

“He gave me the card.” Julian whispered to Iris, dipping down to her ear. “ **The Hanged Man** card. Lucio sent him. It was my invitation to the banquet. He slipped it into my shirt pocket while we danced.” 

Iris guided them back into the dance. “So you didn’t go into the night knowing you’d be attending.” She said quietly while they danced together; Julian took the lead from her, spinning her out on his arm quickly before bringing her back, gripping the underside of her thigh and lifting her gracefully through the air. “But Valerius knew about it ahead of time. I think Asra did, too. Lucy mentioned Asra helped to prepare the ritual.” Iris turned her eyes up to Julian, her slippered feet dropping back to the floor just as the dance was wrapping up. “What time was the banquet to be?” 

“Midnight.” Julian said quietly. “I remember thinking it was just like Lucio, to have a banquet in the middle of the night.” 

“It’s an auspicious time. Especially for the Fool. The very beginning of the day.” Iris mused, chewing on her lip. “So the ritual tonight will probably begin at midnight.” 

“Well, that’s something.” Julian said, eyes pensive. “We have a few hours until the ritual starts.” 

It was then that the music shifted into the next song, something slower and sadder; Sabine had picked up the bandoneon, the sweet, lilting sound blending beautifully with the vihuela and violone. Iris froze in place, her heart pounding, her nerves firing with every note; she recognized the song, it was so familiar, so familiar… in her arms, Julian paused too, his brow shifting with concentration. “Iris, do you…?” He began, and then Sabine started to sing.

_“Viens avec moi ... c'est le petit jour...”_

With a soft gasp, Iris felt warmth snake up her spine, and she sank forward into Julian’s arms, into the memory. 

_Iris was standing at the top of the steps into the ballroom, the same steps she had descended from less than an hour ago. She lifted the curtain, her eyes darting over the packed, chattering crowd, her lips pursed. “They’re getting antsy.” She whispered, turning to her companion; Sabine, several centimeters shorter than her, wearing a shimmery dove-gray pantsuit that brought out the deep brown of her eyes. She stood on tiptoe to peer over Iris’s shoulder at ballroom below them._

_“This is classique Lucio.” Sabine whispered in her soft, breathy sotto; Iris was surprised to hear a heavy Franc accent. “Make all these...last-minute changes to the opening number, then show up late à sa foutue fête.” She turned to Iris now, eyes sparkling. “I am truly sorry you won’t be able to perform your beautiful song. I had so looked forward to hearing you sing.”_

_Iris snorted. “It’s not your doing. It’s all Lucy. A fucking power play.” She smiled a little, meeting Sabine’s gaze. “It will sound much lovelier in your voice, anyway.”_

_Sabine laughed, the sound sweet and musical. “It does no good to compare, chouchou. There is no lovelier, loveliest. Just different kinds of lovely.”_

_Iris opened her mouth to say something, but there was a crash behind them, the sound of china breaking, water splashing._

_It was Julian, in a suit of warm gray and a pale blue shirt, practically being held up by Lucio, who was also stumbling, cackling with glee as Julian tried to re-right the broken vase on a beautifully carved wooden credenza, his hands shaking and useless._

_With a sneer, Iris gathered the sheer blue lace of her skirt and rushed to the two of them, tall heels clicking against the marble. “Is this what you’ve been doing, Lucy? While you made all of Vesuvia wait for you?” She spat as she kneeled down and wrapped Julian’s arms around her shoulders, heaving him upright on her unsteady legs. “Getting trashed? Getting Ilya trashed?”_

_Lucio leered at her through his horrifying crimson eyes, his thin lips twisting into a smirk as he openly ogled her, the diaphanous lace around her arms, the sweetheart neckline, the broad satin sash that cinched her waist and trailed to the floor, her practically bare legs. “I was receiving care and treatment from my most trusted physician.” He slurred, his dark brows arching in mock-innocence. “Hardly a crime, my little fool.”_

_“That is enough.” An imperious voice, soft and mellisonant, cut through the murmur of voices that rose up at their altercation. Nadia had emerged from a nearby receiving room; she was dressed an ice-blue gown with a scooped neck, the skirt of long, lovely flounced layers that swayed with every movement. Her garnet eyes were as icy as her gown as she regarded her husband with disdain._

_“In this precarious political situation, I’d thought that I wouldn’t have to explain to you the importance of not keeping the people waiting.” She hissed through gritted teeth. “And yet, it seems I keep overestimating your intelligence, Lucio.”_

_“The people love me. You’re worried over nothing.” Lucio whinged petulantly. Iris snorted loudly, and Nadia stared him down witheringly, pityingly._

_“We should start now.” Sabine said quietly, on the periphery. “If everyone is ready.” Her eyes fell uncertainly on Julian, who was leaning on Iris, head nodding._

_“We’ll be fine.” Iris said firmly. “Let’s get this started.” Sabine nodded, and slipped through the curtain; almost immediately, there was thunderous applause. Nadia raised her brows almost imperceptibly at Iris as she lead her drunk husband to the front of the line; the music swelled, gentle, lilting vihuelas, thrumming violones, a steady beat on a drumset, and the two of them stepped through the curtain, arm in arm, as if nothing were amiss._

_Iris took one of Julian’s shoulders now, her other hand finding his chin, bringing his gaze to hers. He blinked at her, his eyes bloodshot and his pupils just tiny pinpricks. “Oh, darling.” She whispered. “You’re not drunk, are you?”_

_Slowly, his eyes focused on her, and a sweet, dopey smile flung itself across his face. “Tako si lijepa.” He murmured. “Svjetlo moga života...”_

_“What did you take, Ilya?” Iris asked softly. “What did Lucy give you?”_

_“I...” Julian scrunched his eyes closed, as if thinking hard. “Morphine. Lucy won’t... wouldn’t take his unless I...”_

_“Arcana help us.” Iris whispered. “You can’t go out like this, darling...they won’t miss us, we can go walk it off in the gardens...”_

_“No. No...” Julian said, standing, bringing Iris up with him; they wobbled a little as he got his bearings. “I want...wanna to dance with you...” He turned his shimmering gray eyes to her. “Hh – who knows if we’ll get another chance?”_

_“Gods, that’s morbid.” She murmured, though she couldn’t help but smile softly, sweep an errant wave away from his eyes with a tender, lingering touch. The few couples in line ahead of them had all processed out now; it was nearly their turn. “Maybe I could...” Lip sunk between her teeth, she cast an unburdening spell on herself, feeling the weight lift from her feet, her legs, her back, before pressing three fingertips gently into his forehead, casting a concentration spell with a soft wash of chilly white light._

_And then their time was up; Julian offered Iris the crook of his elbow, his smile still woozy, even as his pupils dilated slightly, focusing on her. She took it, pressing a quick kiss into his cheek, and they stepped out into the ballroom._

_They were one of the last couples to descend to the dancefloor, sweeping down the steps quickly, pausing at the landing where the staircases joined, Julian dropping down on one knee to present Iris to the audience, her extending her arms out to take a dramatic curtsy. Sabine was swaying a little to the music, waiting for her entrance; she made eye contact with Iris and winked as she and Julian took their place on the floor, near the back. The last couple behind them took their spots, and Sabine, with a gesture to cue her musicians, began to sing._

_“Viens avec moi...c'est le petit jour...”_

_This dance was much more complicated; immediately, Julian had her in a twirling lift, before dropping her down low into a dip, perfectly in sync with the rest of the dancers, mirroring the movement of the music, of Sabine’s beautiful, soft voice. Then they were waltzing, the dissonant music resolving into familiar sweetness, before Sabine’s voice found a long, drawn-out descending run, bringing them into the chorus, Iris spinning in Julian’s arms skillfully before striking a dramatic tango lunge._

_"Ne nous battons pas ... je suis fatigué, dormons ce soir?"_

_Julian pulled Iris back into his arms, rotating her gently as they moved back into the waltz step. Iris furrowed her brows; he was much more steady, more skillful, than she expected him to be, even with her magic guiding him. Iris hesitated only a moment, before seeing into him, her suspicions confirmed. “Ilya...this isn’t your first time using, is it?” She whispered._

_His eyes widened. “I, erm...Iris, that’s…” He fumbled._

_Iris bit her lip, anger welling up, hot and violent, in her stomach, her chest. “How long, Ilya?”_

_His face fell, defeated. “Autumn. September?”_

_“Since you’ve taken on more of Lucio’s care.” Iris was boiling now. “Has he been making you do this that long?”_

_Julian’s face was a study of devastation. “Iris, please….”_

_“Have you treated other patients while high?” Iris tried to keep her voice even, but she could hear the razor’s edge of rage slicing through. “The clinic? The dungeons?”_

_He looked away, but he couldn’t answer; the music shifted again and Iris was spinning out on his arm, into the pallid, slimy arms of Praetor Vlastomil, as Sabine started singing the second verse._

_Iris moved through her partners in the progressive dance – Vlastomil, then Valerius, then Vulgora – with a single-minded focus, her rage ferocious and animal, sharpening with each step, each lift, each twirl. When Vulgora spun her out and a cool, metal hand caught her wrist, not gently, and Lucio snapped her hips into his, she hardly registered her disgust, even as his lecherous gaze bore into her._

_“You’ve been making Ilya take morphine?” She sneered angrily, incredulously, as Lucio twirled her. “That’s low, even for you, Lucy.” His metal hand fell on her hip as she pressed her arching back into his chest, her hand in his as she moved mechanically through the steps of the dance._

_Lucio’s dark, twisted brows arced; this close, Iris could see the fine lines of age wrinkling his brow, around his eyes. “Oh, perhaps in the beginning he was reluctant.” Lucio purred into her ear. “He’s more than willing now. Begs for it, even.”_

_“He is not your plaything.” She growled at him, her lips barely moving._

_Lucio chuckled lightly, spinning her again so they were chest to chest, his hands drifting lower and lower on her back, until they were dangerously close to her ass; the heat of anger, of alarm, rose on her cheeks. “That’s where you’re wrong, my beautiful fool. Everyone in this palace, in this realm, is my plaything, and one way or another, I always get what I want.” He buried his nose in her long hair, sniffing obscenely. “One way or another, Iris.”_

_Iris bared her teeth, and, with a loud yelp, Lucio jerked his right hand away from Iris’s hip as if his flesh was sizzling hot, but when he looked at his palm, the pale skin was pristine._

_Iris’s eyes were steely as she regarded him, as they waltzed together. “You’re a monster, Lucy. Soon, everyone will see.” She whispered._

_Lucio laughed now, cruelly, sadistically, snapping Iris back into his arms, lifting her through the last few phrases of the song. “Hm, is that a threat? What is it you intend to do, Iris? Write a cute little song for the people? Ask them not to lose hope? Ask them to trust the treasonists on the inside, desperately trying to unseat me? Too bad they don’t speak Franc. I thought that was a rather clever solution to your insubordination.”_

_His frightful eyes glinted sharply now, his smile melting away into a snarl. “Do you think that if you and Jules and Noddy weren’t all so beloved by the public that you wouldn’t be swinging by your broken necks?” His hand slipped down to the curve of her backside, groping her freely. “Or if you all weren’t such sweet pieces of ass?”_

_He spun her out, and dropped to his knee, as she struck her final pose, glowering with frustration, with helplessness while he grinned wickedly, his brows arching maniacally. Behind them, Sabine sang the last line of the song, dipping into her low register as the music faded away._

_“Nous sommes perdus, mais nous serons retrouvés...”_

Iris came back with a gasp, as if she had been doused with ice-cold water. Julian had managed to navigate them to the edges of the room, his hands on her back as he swayed her gently to the music. She blinked up at him, her eyes slowly focusing; he smiled gently, bemusedly. 

“You were gone.” He murmured. “A memory?” 

Iris felt her lips tremble. “I saw memories of you using morphine after I died. I thought…” she swallowed, and couldn’t finish. “But you were using when we were together? When I was alive?” 

Julian’s expression fell into the same study of desperation, of dismay, as her memory. He was shocked into silence for a moment, before he took a shuddering breath, looking away from Iris. “At first...” he murmured, “...it was because Lucio forced my hand. He refused to do his treatments unless I did it with him, and I couldn’t...I couldn’t let him die. But then….” 

Iris buried her face in his chest, hands winding up his back; she was overcome with empathy, with compassion. “...You craved it. You needed it.” She whispered. She thought of what Lucio said in the memory.

“It was so much easier.” He whispered, his voice shaky. “The plague was getting worse, and nothing we tried was working. I was tending to Lucio….trying to keep it from you. The work in the dungeons was becoming... harrowing. And things were strained between you and I. After you knew. Then, when you were gone...” 

Iris’s heart sank. “It’s a miracle we didn’t all drink ourselves to death.” She muttered; Julian laughed once, quietly. 

“Not for lack of trying.” He said. “The worse the plague got, the more lavish and wild the parties became. Like every day could be the last. The end.” 

“Because it could have been.” Iris met Julian’s eye; even through his mask, she could see, could sense his pain. She kissed him, softly and sweetly, on the lips. “When did you stop?” 

Julian’s eyes were far-off and hazy now. “After he took my memories, Asra dropped me off at Mazelinka’s. She could sniff out an opium addiction a click out, and she did with me what she did with her crew – locked me in the hole until I sweated it out. I raged and cursed at her for days, weeks maybe, through the worst of it. She never relented, or wavered. Wiped my brow and made me soup even as I screamed at her, wishing for her painful death.”

Iris was practically crushed by the feelings of gratitude, of affection, that rose up in her for Mazelinka. “That couldn’t have been easy. For either of you.” Iris sighed. 

Julian chuckled. “Mazelinka’s a tough old bitch. It was probably nothing compared to my teenage years.”

Iris raised an eyebrow; she felt a little swell of happiness. “You knew Mazelinka then?” 

Julian smiled fondly. The music around them had shifted into a gentle slow dance, and his hands sank down to Iris’s hips, swaying her gently to the meandering beat. “Mazelinka and my grandmother were lovers. A few times a year, Mazelinka’s pirate ship would dock in Nevivon disguised as a merchant vessel. It was Mazelinka who taught me how to sail, how to fight and use a sword. She was the one who convinced my grandmother to let me travel, to study medicine in Prakra.”

“She’s your family.” Iris cooed brightly. “It must be lovely to have her so close.” 

“It is, though I would prefer fewer swats from her spoon. They’re bound to leave nasty bruises now.” Julian said with a smirk. His eye caught on something across the room; it was Asra, pressing his way through the crowd back to the two of them. 

“Nadia knew about the ritual.” He said quietly, pressing his lips into Iris’s cheek as he gripped Julian’s shoulder affectionately. “She knew I was going to sabotage it. She was helping me.” 

“Helping how?” Iris asked, brows furrowing. 

Asra shook his head softly. “By not stopping me.” 

“That’s something.” Iris mused, even as her heart broke, remembering what Nadia told her only a few nights ago. “Julian remembered something, too. The ritual began at midnight.” 

“Then the ritual will take place at midnight tonight.” Asra said, his voice meditative. “We only have a few hours left.”

“Maybe we should keep moving, then.” Julian’s voice was solemn. “Where to next?” 

“I think I went to the circus room after this.” Asra muttered. 

Julian’s brows raised. “Then this is where we split. I went straight to the fountain room.” 

“With your gold lion?” Iris teased, her face lit up with a playful smile. 

Asra laughed. “Sounds like the magpie found someone else shiny to chase.” He fiddled playfully with the feathers of Julian’s collar. 

“You’re impossible.” Julian muttered, his cheeks reddening, but he was smiling. 

Asra wound his arm around Iris’s waist. “I didn’t stay in the circus room very long. I’ll breeze through there, then we’ll meet you in the fountain room. I’m pretty sure that’s where I went next.” He turned to Iris. “Will you come with me? The circus room is always outstanding.” 

Julian dipped down and kissed Iris’s cheek. “Go. It’s fabulous. I’ll save a drink for you.” 

And so they parted, Iris’s hand wound around Asra’s arm as Julian wove away from them through the crowd, which was growing rowdier and rowdier with each passing moment. The circus room was clear on the other side of the palace, in a rather large receiving room by the formal dining room. There was a queue to get in, but something like a shimmering mist engulfed them, Asra smirking as he and Iris slipped in behind the guard, undetected by the partygoers in line. 

The room was draped in magnificent tapestries, colored like a blazing sunset; fiery reds, oranges, maroons, pinks and fuchsias. Elaborate gold and red Seong lanterns the size of Iris’s head hung suspended from the ceiling, casting magical golden light over three ringed stages, each surrounded by an arc of seats raised on bleachers. The smell of fried dough and caramelized sugar wafted up to Iris’s nostrils, and before she could even remark to Asra how good they smelled, he was handing her a paper cone filled with tiny, pillowy doughnuts snowed over in powdered and spiked with candied pecans, a knowing, indulgent look in his eyes. She popped one, still piping hot, into his mouth, letting her bare fingers linger over his lips, before trying one herself; it was crispy and flaky, hot and sweet, and tasted to her like childhood.

Performers in beautiful Seong cheongsams and elaborate embroidered bodysuits flanked each of the rings, which seemed to be obscured by some miraging spell, shimmering faintly in the low light; the loud voice of a crier rang through the din as the doors slammed shut. “Please take your seats – the show is about to begin!” 

Asra quickly located space for the two of them on a low bench near the back of one of the risers, sitting elegantly in his long, trailing skirt; when Iris went to sit next to him, he pulled her into his lap with a wicked grin, wrapping his arms around her hips and pressing a heated kiss into her neck as the lights dimmed. The illusions dropped away from the rings as the acrobats, the magicians obscuring what was inside them, backflipped away with ease. In the ring in front of them were three Kerati bender monks, each dressed in undulating shades of blue and green, holding aloft an immense sphere of water. Even from the back of the risers, Iris could smell the tang of the sea. 

“Oh, these bender monks are astounding.” Asra whispered in her ear, his lips pressed to the whorl; Iris could practically hear the delight sparkling in his eyes. “Don’t blink or you’ll miss it, heart.” 

In a puff of red smoke, three performers appeared in shimmering iridescent leotards and otter masks, their ink-black hair slicked back into tight chignons. Wrists intertwined, they each raised their arms up to the orb, before taking a synchronized leap into the water. The surface of the sphere rippled, and, with a gasp from the crowd, the swimmers began their routine, twirling through the water, their limbs intertwining lazily, the light glinting and playing off their costumes like pearls in moonlight. 

The three benders all changed the positions of their hands in unison, and the sphere was now filled with schools of silvery fish, their scales glittering, and the shadows of larger creatures, sharks and octopi and even a whale with several sets of flippers. Iris gasped, her eyes sparkling with wonder, as the performers drew beautiful designs with their bodies in the warm seawater, apparently with no need to breathe. 

For several minutes, the swimmers and the benders wove through their beautiful routine, the crowd enchanted by their every movement, applauding wildly after a particularly stunning or spectacular feat. Just as Iris thought they were all going to take their bows, a figure walked in front of the stage, dressed in a ringmaster’s uniform, an amplifone in their hands, a wide stage smile splitting their face. Just as their eyes fell on Asra and Iris cuddling in the back, a bright light swung onto the two of them, dazzling Iris. 

“We have two celebrated magicians in our midst!” The ringmaster called, their boisterous voice booming through the room as the audience craned back to see; Asra shielded his smarting eyes, blinking the haloed light out of them steadily, as he tentatively clutched Iris a little tighter to him. “Think we can convince them to grace us with a performance of their own in the ocean sphere?” 

In the floating orb, the swimmers smiled and beckoned to them like sirens, and the audience clapped and whooped, egging them on. Iris felt the color rise to her cheeks, and she wanted to sink through the floor, but she felt rather than heard the gentle rumble of a chuckle through Asra’s chest. His brows were cocked, smiling amusedly as he regarded Iris. “What do you think? Could be fun...” 

Iris hesitated for a moment, before laughing, smiling and shaking her head disbelievingly even as she stood, offered her hand to Asra to pull him up from the bench. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he wrapped one arm around Iris’s waist and lifted them off the ground in one long elegant step, over the risers and the crowd before landing gracefully in front of the orb. 

The audience applauded, and Asra turned to Iris, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. “Ready, Iris?” 

“As I’ll ever be.” 

Their fingers interlocked, and, with one soft inhale, they jumped; the water pulled them in like a gentle tide, the surface rippling quietly as it pulled them under. 

Iris hadn’t expected the water to be so warm, more like a soothing bath than any ocean she’d ever been in; as she expected, she could feel air whooshing through her lungs as if she had suddenly grown gills, the water itself imbued with some kind of insufflation spell. On the periphery of the orb, the dancers swirled and played, their smiles beaming behind their otter masks, the water circling against the surface languidly. 

Iris turned to Asra, and her heart swelled at the sight of him; he was staring at her through lidded eyes, amber skin gleaming, his bright white hair haloed out in the water, his fine clothes rippling gently where they weren’t clinging, filmy, to his body. He was indescribably beautiful, and the way he was looking at her… he wrapped both his arms around Iris and leaned into her, stopping just before their lips brushed, gazing deeply into her wide eyes. 

Iris gasped, the heat rushing to her cheeks and to her belly, as the water swirled and changed around them; from the unbelievable blue of the ocean to a heart-stopping blush pink, the silver schools of fish turning gold and rosy. Asra’s strong hands, his nimble fingers, snaked up Iris’s arms, her neck, to her cheeks, cupping them as he breached the distance between the two of them, pressing a deep kiss against Iris’s lips. 

The water swirled again, two currents ribboning in opposite directions, one a deep, spiritual purple, the other opalescent, shifting oranges and pinks and blues, the edges blurring and shimmering into the same blush pink, as Asra and Iris kissed, Iris threading her hands through Asra’s hair as she pulled him closer to her, sending a cascade of harmless white and pink sparks from the orb over the audience. Asra twirled Iris in the water as if they were slow dancing, and the hues shifted through the rainbow, green and gold, orange and blue, silver and saffron. 

Iris pressed away from Asra, their lips lingering, before twirling away from him, her limbs graceful like a ballerina’s as she pirouetted through the water, sending shimmering ribbons of electricity out from the surface of the orb, spinning like the rings of some faraway, ice-blue planet; Asra met her motions with his own, shimmering rivers crossing and sparking as water and current intersected. 

With one fluid movement, they returned to each other for one final, heated kiss; the water dissolved around them, splashing down onto the stage and over the audience. They all landed on their feet, the synchronized swimmers with their feet planted and their arms raised in victorious Vs, Iris and Asra in each other’s embrace. The bender monks, on the periphery, were bowing, their hands steepled in front of them. 

"A stunning display of passion and power!” The ringmaster shouted into the amplifone, the audience on their feet, stamping and roaring with applause. With a quiet chuckle, Iris pressed another kiss into Asra’s dripping cheek; they were both soaked, but Iris thought that Asra had never looked more handsome as he regarding her with hazy, adoring eyes. 

The ringmaster took both of their hands and led them through the bows, before whisking them off the stage and into the servant’s hallway that now served as the performer’s dressing rooms before the audience could swarm them. They thanked the two of them jovially for being good sports while the performers orbited, peppering them with praise. A stage manager handed the two of them towels, thoughtful but useless; Asra had already magicked all of the water out of their clothes, off their skin, their hair, leaving their costumes pristine. 

More performers bustled wildly around them, quickly prepping for the next round, their entrances; the guests had already been ushered out of the room, and new masqueraders were filing in for the next show. Iris felt the hands of the swimmers on her shoulders, squeezing gently, encouragingly, before they slipped off to their cues. 

Iris, still a little stunned and bemused, felt Asra’s hand in hers as he led her away down the hall. There seemed to be a series of long, sparse servant hallways connecting the entertaining rooms in this wing. Even though Iris thought these halls would be teeming with more servants, more performers, planners, scrambling to ensure the success of the masquerade, Asra seemed to have found a stretch that was silent and still; just a couple hundred meters away from the space where the circus performers were prepping, there was hardly a soul in sight, especially after Asra tugged Iris around a corner and down a dark corridor. 

For a naive moment, Iris thought it was a shortcut to the fountain room – and then Asra’s hands were on the swells of of her upper arms, pinning her to the cold marble wall, his knee pressed between hers, his tongue swirling through her mouth like a teenager’s. Iris kissed back, hungrily, greedily, relishing his taste, his heat, savoring it even as kissed her neck ravenously, his breath fervent against her bare skin. 

“Asra...” Iris murmured, a coy smile on her face as she resisted gently. “Don’t we have memories to chase?” 

Asra’s violet eyes were absolutely wicked as he looked up at her through his long, feathery eyelashes, his tongue running down the length of her neck. “This is what I remember…” He murmured as he pressed his lips against her breastbone. “Being with you...you were so gorgeous in that water, my heart...” 

His eyes dropped closed now as his kisses dropped lower and lower down her her chest, between her breasts, trailing down to her belly; he sank gracefully to his knees in front of her as his clever fingers wound through the delicate fabric of her dress, tenderly, gently pushing it up around her hips. The warmth that enveloped Iris was overwhelming; even as she grasped a handful of Asra’s soft, curly hair, as she arched her back against the firm stone, she sank back into the memory. 

_She and Asra were running, running, hand-in-hand through the halls of the palace. They were dressed in masquerade finery, a long white dress on Iris, Asra in a gorgeous, royal purple shirt and a dramatic velvet cape. It was late, so late in the night that the hallways were practically empty; the only people they saw were servants starting to clean for the next night and too-drunk partygoers stumbling, laughing, falling into each other’s arms. But where those masqueraders were meandering, rambling, Asra and Iris were sharp and focused, casting their magic out, searching for –_

_Asra’s fingers clutched at Iris’s and jerked her to him, shouldering open a heavy door that revealed a room empty of souls, the long table in the center laden with beautiful boxes of all shapes and sizes. Iris barely had a moment to consider what they could contain before door banged shut loudly; with a loud click, Asra locked it with his magic, pausing only a moment before turning his gaze to her._

_Iris’s breath hitched, her heart pounding; his eyes were cold, distant and blank, but still cloudy with animal desire. Without hesitation, he breached the short distance between him and her and pinned her to the wall, raking his fingers down her bare chest, roughly pushing the fabric away from her breasts before sinking his teeth hard into the tender swell._

_She keened, lifting her lips into a sneer, and dragged her nails over his scalp before grabbing his hair, jerking him back up to her mouth for a kiss full of tongue, of teeth, of biting and scraping. Asra growled; he grabbed Iris’s hips and lifted her up with one raw movement, carrying her the short distance to the table, sprawling her ungracefully out in front of him and knocking some of the boxes out of the way as she fell onto her back with a gasp._

_And then he was on her, crudely pushing up her gown up over her hips, baring her sex to him; he bit at his gloves, pulling them off with his teeth before dipping his fingers between Iris’s legs, moaning openly at the wetness that had already clung there, the heat that surged from her._

_Iris groaned, arched her back against his touch, and a flash of passion lit up her dark eyes; her hand flew out and slapped Asra’s face with a sharp crack of skin on skin. There wasn’t even a pause as Asra groaned throatily, lifting one corner of his lips as he pulled one of Iris’s thighs up, her knee nearly to her chin, before white silken pants fell from his hips, unseated by his magic._

_There was a flash of purple light, an overwhelming wave of heat, as Asra stroked himself a few times, coating his hardness in lubricant – he grasped Iris’s hips and pulled her roughly to the edge of the table, eliciting a wanton grunt from her. Then he was lining up, digging his fingers hard into her thighs, holding her in place as she braced herself; he moaned loudly as he pushed past her natural resistance all the way into her._

_Iris scraped her long nails into his chest and keened, throwing her head back, her long hair splayed out on the table. Asra pressed forward, bringing her knee forward with him so it was between them, the other leg out long, the angle making both Iris and Asra see sparks as he started thrusting hard, his pace bruising and carnal. He was panting, gasping, as he sank his teeth again into her bare breast, tonguing the skin of her bare shoulders, as Iris ripped his shirt off of him, stripping a few of the opal buttons from their seams. She raked her fingernails down his rippling back, digging hard into his shoulders as she clung onto him in his passion, her nails coming away bloody._

_Asra’s hand roved down to the exposed swell of her ass and spanked her hard, making her howl, the sound reverberating through the vaulted room. Asra groped the same place roughly before slapping her again, harder, his pupils blown wide as he watched her writhe and cry out underneath him. She grabbed his hair and yanked, pulling his honeyed neck back and long, squeezing a little groan from him. In return, he fisted his other hand in her hair and tugged her head head up, bringing her lips closer to his so their tongues could dance, could melt, could consume each other._

_They slapped and bit, grunted and growled, pushing each other to the very limits of their boundaries, until Iris pressed her palm into Asra’s chin, pushing him up roughly from her so her hand could snake between them, so she could touch herself, draw out her own orgasm; with a leer, Asra wrapped a hand firmly around Iris’s neck, squeezing carefully, as he leaned forward and hissed in her ear, “You... stupid, stubborn cunt...”_

_“Fuck...ing...c-coward...” Iris choked out, quaking, as she jerked her other hand forward to cling to him. As she moved, she struck her elbow on one of the boxes from the table; it fell and clattered to the marble floor, springing open._

_It was as if the light was sucked from the room, whispered out of shadowy corners, the seams in the brick, the tile, and for a moment, Iris thought Asra had gone too far – and then, the ceiling shimmered as if painted with starlight, screaming violets and whistling pinks, whirled together into a spiraling nebula sprinkled with sparkling silver stars. A comet, its flaming tail engorged and opalescent, shot through the imagined sky with a crack of lavender lightning._

_Asra’s fingers trembled, and he paused his movements, releasing Iris as his gaze roved upwards, his lips parted; Iris gasped her breath back into her lungs, her eyes flung open wide as she watched the stars wink above her, her fight gone, gone. When she leveled her eyes to Asra, still inside her, his hands were clutched over his eyes...he was shaking…_

_Gently, gently, Iris sat up and wrapped her warm arms around him; he returned her embrace, and Iris could feel the little wet tears on his cheeks as he nuzzled into her neck, kissed the emerald askew on her breastbone._

_“Don’t go.” She whispered, her voice weak, pleading, as she clung to him. “I’m begging you.”_

_His voice was as desperate as hers. “Come with me.” He whispered shakily in her ear. “Let’s leave this horrible place and never come back.”_

_Iris pulled away, her chin low and quivering, her eyes doleful as she met Asra’s gaze. She trembled. “I can’t, Asra. How can I just...leave? After everything that’s happened?”_

_“You can’t save everyone.” He croaked, eyes fathomless. “It doesn’t have to be you.”_

_Iris bit her trembling lips, tears shivering their way down her cheeks. “I have to try, Asra. I have to.”_

_And then, there was nothing left to say. They were at an impasse._

_After a few moments, Asra broke eye contact, and made to pull out, but Iris clung to him, her hands clutching at his shoulders. “Please…” She murmured, now the one to nuzzle into Asra, pressing her cheek against his. “Can we just...a few minutes more...just like this...”_

_Asra inhaled, the sound shaky and heartbreaking, before drawing her closer. “My heart...” And they held each other, together looking up at the stars._

When the present split over Iris like a cold wave, there were tears in her eyes; one of her legs was thrown over Asra’s shoulder, but he had paused, gently rubbing the underside of her standing thigh, his brows furrowed with worry. He breathed a sigh of relief against her skin as her eyes focused back, locked onto his. 

“A memory?” He whispered, standing, his warm hands falling onto her shoulders. 

Iris trembled, and she flung her arms around his neck, burying her face in gauzy, gilded fabric. “I think...I think it was our last before...before you left...” She stumbled, stuttered, as she cried. “There was a box...a night sky... a comet...” 

Asra made a soft noise, both a hum and a sigh, against Iris’s temple as he kissed her gently through her fine mask. “I’m not proud of that memory.” He whispered. 

Iris sniffed, palming a tear away from her cheek. “Why did you leave?” She asked between sobs. “You said you had to protect me...” 

Asra bit his lip, his eyes dulling. “Iris…” 

“Please.” She begged. “Please tell me.” 

Asra sighed, deeply, heavily. “I’ll show you.” He took her hand, kissed her palm, and lead her down the hall, their fingers interlacing. 

It wasn’t long before the sounds of clattering silverware, drunken laughter, raucous music, reverberated through the narrow servant’s hall. Asra looked over his shoulder at Iris, his eyes soft and sad; then he leaned into a panel of wall that shimmered under his weight. They fell through the portal into a fabulous room, one of Nadia’s music parlors, the instruments enchanted to play on their own, the ceiling absolutely covered in fragrant, blossoming roses of all colors, a romantic rainbow of sweetness. 

The room was much emptier than Iris expected; the only people in the room were a handful of couples, some very young, some very old, all dancing tenderly to the soft music, completely absorbed in the embraces of their partners. Asra drew Iris in gently to his arms, their feet falling easily into a slowly uncoiling sequence; he let out a soft sigh, his breath smoothing against Iris’s slick hair. 

“This room is never the most popular...” He murmured to her. “But it was always one of my favorites. One of yours. The slow dance room.” 

“An oasis in the chaos.” Iris whispered back, a little spark of recognition warming her. 

His eyes were aglow as he regarded her. “You never liked crowds, even before. When you’d get panicky, I’d bring you here, and I could just hold you, until….” His voice trailed off, misty and distant. 

Iris pressed her forehead against his, nuzzled him gently. For a minute or two, they just danced, neither of them wanting to break the beautiful spell of the room. Then, Iris whispered, “Did it happen here? Whatever...whatever it was that made you leave?” 

Asra sighed heavily again, and his hands traced up Iris’s body to her neck, his touch so sweet and gentle as one hand cupped the nape of her neck, the other drifting up to her temple, thumb pressed to her third eye. “You’ll see, heart.” He said, barely audible, even to Iris, so close to him their lips were almost touching. There was a soft white light, and warmth, warmth…

_The room swam a little, even as Iris sat coiled heavily on one of the overstuffed couches in the corner of the slow dance room. The heavy pit in her stomach could have been any number of things; the rich, heavy food, the copious drink – she swigged from the beautiful bottle of Golden Goose in her hand nonetheless – the panic from crowds that she hadn’t felt since she was probably 17 or so. And...all the emotions bubbling up in her, like the effervescence of the wine she drank, softly simmering just below the surface. Anger. Disappointment. Abandonment. Rejection. She felt little tears sting her eyes, and she took another swig of wine to keep them from falling._

_Normally this room was one of her favorites; she glanced around it now over the lip of the bottle she drank from. So late into the night, it was full of couples – the drunken, stumbling ones, meeting for the first time and eking out a tiny bit of wooing before tumbling into bed together; the soft and tired ones who had been together a long time, relishing the romance, rekindling that delicate sweetness laid dormant by lives of crushing normalcy, who may, too, tumble into their shared beds for a night of unexpected passion._

_But tonight, the room only offered Iris cold comfort, mocking her. It was merely a quiet, if ironic, place to drink alone, away from the crush of the crowds, the pounding music that threatened to shake her brain loose, to shatter her completely, delicate thing of glass that she was._

_“I thought I might find you here.” A soft voice, unnervingly even, infuriatingly calm, slipped over her ears like cool silk, startling her from her sulk. Iris turned her gaze angrily to Asra, who was holding a hand out to her, his expression stoic._

_“Dance with me.” It was not a question, nor a command; Asra didn’t beg, but this was the closest he came to it, this calculated, liminal space between entreating and imploring._

_She could play this game. “No.” She said coldly. “I’d rather puke.”_

_“Iris.” He whispered, voice sharp, but quiet. “We don’t have much time.”_

_“Everything has a price, if you’re willing to pay it.” She mocked him, mimicking his voice almost perfectly, taking another sip of her wine. “Some choices are quite costly.”_

_“Don’t punish me, my heart.” His voice wavered just a little. “Please.”_

_Iris’s heart skittered in her chest, her face falling. He was begging. She set the Golden Goose bottle down, a little less gracefully than she intended to, and took his hand._

_He lead her to the dancefloor, their hands interlacing instinctually, though Iris could feel the tension, the awkwardness, even as her memory-self wrapped her arms around Asra’s torso. Asra laced his hands around her hips, just as they had been holding each other moments ago in the present, their foreheads pressed together._

_“Why shouldn’t I punish you?” Iris whispered to him. “You’re abandoning me. You’re abandoning Vesuvia.”_

_Asra’s eyes fluttered closed; he looked so, so tired. “It’s not that simple, Iris.”_

_Iris rolled her eyes. “But you won’t tell me why, will you?” Her voice was spiked with cruelty, even as it trembled. “No, why would you tell me anything at all?”_

_“It’s to protect you, Iris.”_

_“I’m not a kid anymore.” Iris spat. “I can protect myself. I don’t need you to be my guardian.”_

_“Iris...” Asra whispered. “You don’t even know what to protect yourself from.”_

_Iris stood stock-still, her brows furrowed and lips parted in disbelief. “Do you think I don’t see the way Lucy leers at me? See his horrible, violent fantasies of me? Of you? Of both of us? Do you think I’m a fool?”_

_“Then why do you mock him? Why don’t you keep your head down?” Asra asked calmly, fiercely. “Why do you put yourself right in his sights? Why are you obsessed with him?”_

_“How else can I fight, Asra?” Iris hissed right back. “This is the power I have. You, me, Nadi, Muriel, Julian...we can take him down. He’s a tyrant. He’s letting the city waste away while he throws lavish parties and focuses only on curing himself. How many times has he tabled your relief and training programs to bolster the protections around the palace? How much money has the realm spent on morphine just to manage his symptoms? Fuck, Asra, Julian’s full-time job is to keep him alive. He doesn’t give a shit about the people. He only cares about himself.”_

_“It’s not our job to save anyone but ourselves.” Asra said quietly. “We’ve tried. Arcana help us, we’ve tried. And now...please, Iris. Come with me.”_

_“What are you so afraid of?” Iris whispered. “Death? We could die anytime, of anything, no matter where we are. We get a few years before Death wants us back. You taught me that, Asra.”_

_“There are things worse than Death, Iris.” Asra murmured. “Much, much worse.”_

_“Tell me.” She whispered fiercely. “Please, Asra.”_

_His eyes steeled for a moment, then he swallowed, casting his gaze downward sullenly. “He threatened you. Gave me an ultimatum. Submit to him, or he would...he would make you submit to him. Or I could leave.”_

_The rage inside this younger Iris boiled, and her eyes flashed. Iris could feel the weight of the athame strapped to her leg, safely tucked out of sight._

_“I’ll kill him.” She whispered, nearly a growl, her voice low and animal in her throat. She wrenched herself out of Asra’s arms, her teeth bared. “I mean it. It’ll be easy. I’ll lure him to bed and slit his throat.”_

_“Don’t be stupid.” Asra raised his voice only very slightly, his strong hands closing around the swell of Iris’s arms, clothed in the soft white velvet. “You’ll be swinging from your neck before the sun rises.”_

_“I don’t care!” Iris hissed, tears in her eyes. “I’d happily die to see that monster dead and Vesuvia free.” She wrenched her arms out of Asra’s grip and spun on her heel, rushing out the door with her dress gathered up around her knees._

_“IRIS!” Asra thundered, racing after her, his magic haloing out around him as he searched for Iris’s shifting, splendorous aura; even as she slipped through the halls, into the thinning crowds, invisible to him, he could sense her. She was running towards Lucio’s wing. Towards Lucio._

_Asra shouldered and shoved his way through the partygoers, not apologizing, his eyes wild, his heart hammering in his chest. He finally caught sight of Iris down a long, mostly abandoned hall; with a fierce gasp, he sprinted to her, grabbing her shoulders and spinning her around so their eyes met. “Calm down, Iris, control yourself, you’re not thinking straight...” He panted, his magic ekeing out of him, coiling around her, a warning._

_“How dare he play with your life like that, with our lives like that?” She wailed, her shoulders shaking. “How can I be calm, when, when...when we have no...no control...” She struggled against him, trying to buck out of his arms, but his magic held her in place. “Let me go, let me do this, I don’t care what happens to me...”_

_“I won’t.” Asra said. “I won’t let you. I care.”_

_“Stop treating me like a child!” Iris yelled, beating her fists against his chest. “You… can’t… choose… for me...”_

_“Then stop acting like a child!” Asra’s voice broke, his volume raising to Iris’s level, his anger palpable. “And come with me. We can at least be together...away from all this...”_

_Iris laughed viciously. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? If I live my whole life for you, like a good little wife, just you and I in our own little world, always running from our problems? Tend your store, have your babies, mind your garden, never need anything but you?”_

_Asra’s face fell, his eyes wide with mortification. “Iris, no, I...”_

_“Then let me go, or stay and fight with me, Asra!” Iris wailed. “I won’t let you control me, choose for me, any more than I’ll let Lucio! I won’t abandon Aster, Nadia, Muriel, Julian...Vesuvia...”_

_“Iris...” He bit back tears as he pressed a thumb to her forehead. “I’m so sorry...I can’t – I can’t let you do this...”_

_Iris’s eyes glowed purple, and she trembled in his arms as the memory of their conversation left her, as her mind blanked; she could not remember what they had just been talking about but she remembered, she felt, the anger, the passion still searing in her veins. She fisted her hands in the soft of Asra’s cape and pulled her to him, kissing him wildly, hotly, nipping at his lips, his tongue._

_With a soft grunt, he pressed his weight into her, pinning her to the wall in earnest, tightening his grip on her shoulders, pressing his knee between hers; Iris scraped her long nails down his chest through the soft purple fabric of his shirt, then pulled his hair, growling a little. Asra’s practiced fingers wound their way into the plunging neckline of her dress, thumbing her hardening nipples with animal need._

_“We should...we should find a room...” Iris panted, fierceness swelling in her with her anger, but also her sadness. Asra grabbed her hand, and together, they ran down the hall, casting their magic out, looking for an empty room..._

Asra’s eyes were downcast when Iris returned to him, shivering softly as the cold prickled her skin. “You told me then.” She murmured. “You told me, and then you took it away.” 

“You wouldn’t listen.” Asra said quietly, his voice even, calm; Iris knew he was restraining himself. “I thought if I told you, if I was honest with you, you would understand; you would come with me. But you...you took it too far...” 

Iris’s hands shook as she stepped back from Asra. “If you hadn’t done that...I could have killed Lucio. I could have stopped all this.” So many thoughts, emotions, swirled in Iris’s head. “You could have stayed. All those people...they would still be alive.” 

“You would have died. Been executed.” Asra said quietly. “Do you think the guards would have just let you go?” 

“I did die.” Iris said quietly, stonily. “Of the plague.” 

Asra’s beautiful features contorted in pain. “You would have never fallen in love with Ilya. I would have never been with him. We wouldn’t have what the three of us have now.” 

Iris’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Don’t you _dare_ use him like that.” 

“Iris, I’m not, I’m just...” His face fell as he reached out to her with both hands, imploring her back into his arms. “We can’t change what happened. We can only control how we move forward. I’m not proud of what I did. Please. Please, my heart.” 

“I...” Iris felt her heart pounding uselessly in her chest, her breath wild, gasping, too much, not enough. “I’m sorry, Asra, I...I need air...” 

Their eyes met, Asra’s wide, sad, questioning, Iris’s swimming, confused, overwhelmed. She shook her head, so imperceptibly that he almost missed it, before she turned on her heel and ran out of the room, leaving Asra standing alone, the music crescendoing to its quiet end around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> Y'all ready to get weird in the Devil
> 
> and by weird I mean explore dark themes of vices, addiction, destructive behavior, power and control? *cinderella slow blink*


	13. The Devil, Part 1: Oh How Fast The Evening Passes Cleaning Up The Champagne Glasses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Weeknd, Daft Punk - Starboy**
> 
> _TW: Anxiety and panic attacks, rape, allusions to and discussions of rape/noncon/dubcon, entrapment, physical assault, choking, gun use, excessive drinking_
> 
> _There is a graphic rape scene in this chapter. The section that contains it will begin and end with *****. If you are triggered by this content, please speak to a mental health professional, a trusted ally, or call 1-800-656-4673 (US) OR 1-800-273-8255 (US). I believe you._

The edges of Iris’s vision blurred as she rushed through the hallways of the palace. She was lost; she would have been lost even if the palace looked as it normally did, but with the decorations, the partygoers, it was impossible for her to find her usual landmarks. She could have asked a guard, a servant, anyone really, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to squeak the words out, her throat felt swollen shut, her vocal cords useless. And so she wandered, she wandered, aimlessly through the hallways, searching for an exit, a familiar face to collapse into. 

She knew she was being irrational, a touch melodramatic. What Asra did – one memory erased, to keep her from making a terrible mistake, one that might have cost her her life. And yet, and yet – why did she feel so angry at him, why did she feel so frustrated, so helpless, so useless, so, so…

“Iris!” A warm, familiar tenor called in her ear, a gloved hand closing gently around her wrist. Iris’s instinct was to jerk away in her panic, to clock the offender, to scream; but the smell of musk, rum, leather, the sea, all rushed to her, and the dark, handsome figure beside her melted out of the shadows. Julian. 

“I waited for you two in the fountain room, but you were gone for so long...” He said, voice tinged with concern, his visible eye darting over her face; he saw her trembling lips, the little trails of tears down her cheeks, felt her quiver in his hands. “My darling...you’re shaking...” 

“Air...” Iris croaked. “Air, please, Julian...” She leaned forward into him, her forehead on his jacket, his collarbone, as her breath spun up from her lungs in futile puffs, her chest aching like it would burst. Hands, cool, strong hands, wrapped around her, lifting her into his arms like a child; she clung to him as he carried her easily through the crowd, the gentle bob of his quick gait lulling Iris like the rock of a ship, his breath, his pulse in his throat like the sea in a seashell. 

When chilly night air washed over them, the soft scents of the garden lifting to Iris’s nose, she already felt calmer, soothed. Julian gently set her down on one of the cushions laid out on the veranda, scattered strategically around sputtering fire pits. He sat next to her, his long legs coiled gracefully underneath him, and pulled off one of his dancing gloves to remove her beautiful mask, to touch the back of his hand to her forehead. “Do you need anything? Water? Something to eat, are you woozy?” He fussed.

“No, no...just...” She found his other hand and laced their fingers together. “Stay. Please.” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” He murmured; his hand on her forehead slid down to her cheek, and he pressed a soft kiss into her hair. “What happened?” 

“I saw another memory. Memories.” She shook a little, drawing her legs to her chest, wrapping her free arm around her knees. 

Julian’s brows knit together sympathetically; with a quick glance around the empty veranda, he removed his mask as well, his crimson eye reflecting the flickering firelight. “Not good ones, I’m assuming.”

Iris bit her lip. “They were...” She sank her chin a little further into her arm. “Memories of the night that Asra left. We fought, not nicely. He told me why he was leaving, and I acted…” She shook her head slowly, her words failing her. “He obliterated my memory of the conversation. But...” 

Julian sidled a little closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, his arm draped against the small of her back, the way she liked, the way that made her feel protected, safe. “But?” 

Iris felt small, so small, childlike, childish. “I don’t know. I...I see these memories and I hardly recognize myself. The more I see of my past, the less I understand the person I was. I...” She drew her gaze to him, expression morose, mortified. “...I wanted to kill Lucio. I was so angry I was...ready to do it then and there.” 

“We all hated him.” Julian muttered darkly. “There were many… so many…who wouldn’t have hesitated if they had a chance. A real chance.” 

“But...” Iris looked at her hands, coiled uselessly in her lap now. “I can’t imagine doing that now. Even though I still...hate him. Was I really so warped by what was happening at the palace?” She was quiet for a long moment, Julian patient as she gathered her words. “Or...is that who I was before I died? Muriel said I’m different now.” 

Julian drew Iris closer to him, resting his chin on her head. “You are different. But you’ve been through so much. You were in Death’s arms for nearly a year. Wouldn’t that change anyone?” His voice was so sweet, so warm. “You’re still you, even after all of that. A wise woman once told me that.” 

“Flatterer.” Iris laid her head on Julian’s shoulder, but her eyes were solemn. “I feel so useless sometimes. I hardly have any of my memories. If...if I knew more, I wouldn’t...maybe I wouldn’t panic like this. I could make better decisions.” 

Julian tweaked his eyebrows curiously at Iris. “You are one of the least useless people I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot of people.” 

Iris smiled softly against Julian’s neck; for a moment, they were comfortably silent, Julian holding her close as her breathing slowed. “Feel a little better?” He finally whispered to her. 

“I do.” She cooed. “Thank you, darling.” 

“Of course, _draga moj_.” He pressed a kiss into her temple. “Feelings like this...they demand to be felt. If you ignore them, they could make you sick, your stomach, your heart, your nerves. I used to see it all the time on the battlefield. It helps to talk about them, and I’m happy to listen.”

Iris furrowed her brows, his words stirring something certain inside her. “Demand to be felt...” She gasped, turning to Julian, pressing a kiss into his lips. “You beautiful, clever man.” 

“It...it’s not groundbreaking, pretty basic psychology...” 

“No, no.” Iris stood, holding out a hand for Julian, helping to pull him up to her. “Death came to me, before we went to the Lazaret. I saw all these memories of us, grieving...my death, mine and Asra’s separation. Death told me to seek those memories out. Understanding why...would help me move forward. I wonder if that’s what we need to do to stop this ritual. If those memories will help.” 

Julian furrowed his brow. “Well, it’s not much different from what we’re trying to do with my and Asra’s memories. But...how would that help with the ritual?” 

Iris bit her lip in thought. “Death said that we can’t move back, only forward. That I needed to understand to grow. So...maybe I need memories of other masquerades so I don’t repeat my past mistakes. Repeat our past mistakes. Can you think of any memories of me like that? Where I was angry, lost, grieving? Sad?”

“Oh, darling.” Julian’s smirk was roguish, but his eyes were sorrowful. “No one parties like this if they’re not burying something painful.” 

“So...that’s a yes?” 

Julian’s strong brows knit together. “They won’t be easy memories to see.” 

Iris placed both of her hands on his chest. “I need to know. I want to see.” 

“How do I show you?” Julian asked, voice shaking slightly.

“Just...just think of them.” Iris said softly, her fingerstips soft on the planes of his face, her thumb coming to rest over his third eye. “I’ll do the rest.” The full moon shone above them, illuminating Julian’s beautiful face, his glittering, adoring eyes, and Iris felt her power sparkling through her, her magic intensifying. She could do anything in this moment, if she wanted. 

Julian met Iris’s eyes for one brief moment; he leaned in, kissing her lips softly, before dropping his eyes closed. Iris felt it before she saw it, the gentle white light under her thumb, the warmth, the heat, and then...

_Iris was standing at the top of the steps, behind the curtain, head hung low. She stood alone, and despite her finery, she seemed wilted, the structured, pearl-scattered tiers of white velvet around her hips like rose petals left too long in the sun._

_But Julian, watching her from three steps behind, two glasses of wine in hand, found himself breathless at the sight of her, still, after all these months, the slope of her neck, the shape of her lips in profile, the dark shadows of her brows, the fine flush of her rosy cheeks. With her hair piled artfully atop her crown, pearls dripping from her ears, she looked like she could be Countess. Queen. Empress. Julian thought she could rule the world._

_He cleared his throat very softly; still, she startled, wide, dark eyes snapping to him with the softest breath of shock, and he smiled apologetically, handing the glass to her. “They’re ready, Iris.”_

_She took it from him wordlessly, eyes faraway. With a tiny smile, he lifted his glass to her. “Break a leg out there.”_

_She tapped the rim of her glass to his, and he made to drink, but she didn’t, her eyes still full of shadows. She swallowed heavily. “Did Asra ever tell you about Muriel?” She asked, her voice so, so small._

_Julian’s brows knitted softly, lips pressed together in quiet confusion. “Ah, er...no, I don’t believe so?”_

_Iris turned, parted the curtain. In the ballroom, Vesuvia was simmering, the hushed chatter as they waited for the opening number of the masquerade rising up to the two of them like the sibilant crush of surf. The center of the ballroom was cleared; this was where Lucio perched lazily in a gilded chair, a portable throne set with rubies and pearls. At his side stood the largest man Julian had ever seen, taller even than him, sable hair down to his hips, his bare chest covered in scars, jagged and pale, crossed over and over in leather straps, a pauldron over his right arm. He stared straight ahead, eyes dark, expression dour; he was miserable._

_Iris let the curtain drop; Julian was shocked to see her hand tremble. “He’s Asra’s oldest friend; I’ve known him since I came to the city as a child. He’s...” Her voice broke. “The kindest. Gentlest soul. We thought...” She turned her head away from Julian, but he still fished a kerchief out of his pocket, simultaneously lifting up his crow’s mask, the straps tangling in his wild waves, but he didn’t even register the little pain, just the beginnings of tears in Iris’s eyes. He saw now that she had been crying, eyes red, mascara smeared._

_“Iris...” He began, hesitant, offering it to her, but she shook her head, violently now._

_“He disappeared.” Iris whispered. “In the spring. Asra couldn’t...we couldn’t find him. We thought he left when the plague hit. I couldn’t blame him, but Asra...” She shook her head; couldn’t finish. “Then Lucio approached Asra. He told him Muriel would be safe if he worked in the palace for Lucio’s cure.” Her whole face crumpled. “He couldn’t say no. He loves Muriel, Julian. They love each other.”_

_With sudden purpose, she drained the glass of wine with one gulp and handed it back to Julian, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Julian could only gape as Iris’s free hand tightened into a fist, her voice hardening now into something frightening, something Julian had only seen from a distance, a quiet, fierce fire, roaring under the surface. “But Lucy lied. Muriel was fighting in the Coliseum, imprisoned there. As his...” Her face contorted into a horrible snarl. “Lucy’s executioner. Asra saw him for the first time in months today. Out there. Lucio won’t even let them speak to each other. It was Nadia who told me.” She turned to Julian, eyes wild, lips twisted into a sneer. “Lucy’s a monster, Julian. He’s a monster and I will not let him win.”_

_“Iris –” But she was gone, the curtain thrown aside with a flourish – she was descending the stairs now, slowly, slowly, hand on the rail, her mask, the white wolf’s, bordered in shimmering mother-of-pearl, somehow catching and reflecting the dazzling ballroom light in rainbows, her dress now a cacophony, a riot, a mutiny, of colors, her magic sparkling with each step. She was a mirage, a miracle in the light, and Julian couldn’t look away._

_The piano began, Nadia, soft, mournful chords at first, and by the time Iris reached the place where the steps knit together, she was singing, staring straight at Lucio. From his throne, he leered at her, foot bobbing expectantly to the beat, brows raised and smile wry as she approached him, the black satin of his suit reflecting all of her rainbow light._

_“It’s damned if you don’t, it’s damned if you do… be true, cause they’ll lock you up in a sad, sad zoo...”_

_Julian had heard this song countless times before, practiced it relentlessly with Iris and Nadia before they decided that just piano would be best for Lucio’s serenade, but he had never heard it like this, as he watched Iris slink, slowly, sensuously, snakelike, mesmerizing, up to the throne, Lucio’s eyes never leaving hers, even as he took a sip of his wine. Her voice rippled with purpose, with anger, he had never heard before, the song taking on a completely new meaning as Iris bent over Lucio, teasingly, before skillfully plucking the wineglass from his hand._

_“Sew your fortunes on a string, and hold them up to the light...” She took a sip as she strolled around him, the throng entranced, her hand draped across the back of the throne as she took a long, luxurious sip. “Blue smoke will take a very violent flight and you will be changed...”_

_Fluidly, suddenly, she sank into Lucio’s lap, perching on his knee, their faces just barely touching. It could have been mistaken for intimacy of the lewdest order, had it not been for the expression of absolute shock on Lucio’s face, the way his blood-red eyes widened for just a brief moment before his expression melted into lust, his metal hand wrapping around Iris’s waist, squeezing obscenely. If she noticed, cared, she didn’t let on, still singing in that wild voice, seductive, tinged with anger, with chilliness. “And you will be in that very sad, sad zoo...”_

_She turned to him, as if she were to kiss him, tracing one finger down his chest, catching at the silk of his suit jacket, the bare skin underneath, but she smiled softly, pulled away – Lucio, that hapless fool, leaned into her, hardly understanding what a spell she had cast on him, his lips searching for hers. Julian blanched at the look of disdain she gave him, grabbing his chin, appraising him; then, she stood abruptly and turned, skirts swirling, facing Lucio, the corner of her lip lifted into a snarl. “How selfish of you to believe in the meaning of this bad dream...”_

_Julian saw it happening, the way the wineglass swirled in her hand, the way her elbow lifted just slightly – the curtain ripped open with a screech, a full cry rising in his throat as he stumbled across the threshold, too late, too late. The wine slipped through the air in ribbons of crimson as Iris dashed it across Lucio’s face, her voice reaching a fever pitch, wild as she belted, “Metal heart, you’re not hiding, metal heart, you’re not worth a thing...”_

_The piano stopped, mid-beat, Nadia’s fingers frozen on the keys; the scarred chord lingered like the echo of a thunderclap as the crowd fell silent, shocked, scared. Lucio reared up, mouth hanging open in disgust, dark eyebrows twitched together as he met Iris’s stony gaze, her back ramrod straight, the corner of her lip still pulled into a snarl of hatred._

_With a full-throated cry, he lunged, golden arm outstretched to her – there was a crack and a flash like purple lightning, and there was Asra, in his fantastical velvet cape, his dreamy eyes bright with power as he stood between Iris and Lucio, hands arced in front of him, magic crackling from his fingertips._

_Lucio’s sneer grew wild, and he made to lunge again, but a hand, massive, tanned, fell on his shoulder, a gentle warning as Muriel stepped forward. Asra’s hands trembled as he and Muriel locked eyes, perhaps for the first time in months – and Asra dropped his hands in surrender._

_Lucio growled, still wiping the wine from his face, suit ruined. “Get her out of my sight.” He hissed, and Asra, arm around her shoulders – she was sobbing, shaking, ferociously now – led her through the quickly parting crowd, Julian watching in shock as the scene receded from their vision..._

Iris shook as a biting chill chased its way over her shoulders, her chest, her exposed skin prickling into gooseflesh; Julian held her close as she shook, his nose buried in her hair. “What...” Iris breathed, so quiet. “Why did I do that?” 

Julian sighed heavily, the wave of breath cool against her scalp. “It was all you could do...all you felt you could do.” He said, finally. “We had precious few ways to resist, though you more than most. The rest of us...we just made it through, day after day.”

She trembled with anger. “How did anyone survive him?” 

“Many didn’t.” Julian’s voice was dipped in pain. “You didn’t. The rest...did what they had to. Asra did what he had to, to save himself, to protect you.” 

“So did you.” Iris murmured, kissing his neck, noting the tremble of his arms around her, the quiver of his throat as he swallowed heavily. “We have to stop that ritual, no matter the cost. I can’t allow him to come back.” 

Julian smiled wanly. “So what now, captain? Another memory?” 

“Have one in mind?” 

“Yes...but this one isn’t easy, either.” 

Iris steeled herself. “I can handle it, darling.” She traced her thumb over his forehead. 

“I know you can.” He whispered, his eyes adoring; Iris felt warmth, white light, as she fell backwards into Julian’s arms. 

_When Iris dropped into the memory, she was overwhelmed by the absolute pounding of music in her ears, in her body. The room was practically throbbing with insistent bass, magically magnified what felt like a thousandfold; Iris felt completely swallowed in it, as if the bassline had replaced her own heartbeat, was what pumped her blood through her veins._

_Besides her, a tall figure loomed: it was Julian, dressed in a handsome suit of dark blue, carefully scanning the scene around him. As Iris’s ears adjusted to the volume, her eyes adjusted to the low light and the strobes, flashes of vibrant purple, sickly green, magenta, and rose. Whatever room they were in, there were no windows, the walls covered in dark purple and indigo velvet tapestries; the periphery of the room was dotted with couches and large, luscious orchid plants, but otherwise the room was free of furniture, serving as an undulating dancefloor, absolutely covered in moving bodies. In the center was a star-pointed stage; at the apex of each point, Drakrian belly dancers undulated and gyrated to the music in varying states of undress, each woman more beautiful than the last._

_Above her, she heard Julian emit a sound she had never heard from him before; an exasperated click of his tongue, startlingly like the expression Portia made when she was annoyed. She followed his gaze to the center of the stage, and blinked owlishly; she couldn’t believe her eyes._

_It was her, her former self, but even in the wildest memories she’s recovered, Iris had never seen herself like this. Her long hair was pulled back into a braid at the top of her head that swung wildly while she danced; her lids were slashed with royal blue kohl, drawn dramatically back towards her brow, making her look both sultry and ferocious. Her clothing was completely sheer and bright red, a pair of low-slung harem pants and a tight longsleeved blouse that just barely covered her breasts, highlighting her soft but shapely midriff, around which she wore a glittering silver bodychain. If it weren’t for black silk and lace underthings, she would be laying it all out for everyone to see on that dancefloor._

_But it wasn’t her appearance that shocked Iris, it was the way she was dancing. Hips swinging wildly, gracefully; feet masterful, spinning herself around to the music; hands running over her own body, her shoulders, her collarbones, her sides, her midriff, her hips... She dropped her center of gravity low, spreading her knees wide while she shook to the music, keeping pace with the belly dancers beside her. Iris had no memory of ever, ever dancing like that, of even being able to dance like that. Her movements were sensual and hot-blooded, but Iris couldn’t bite back the empty ache of despair she felt as she watched her former self move._

_One of the bellydancers was handed a bottle from the crowd of women around the stage – they were all women, everyone in the room aside from Julian, Iris noticed with a shock – and the belly dancer took a healthy swig before leaning over to memory-Iris. She locked lips with the dancer greedily, sucking the liquor out of her mouth, her hand pulling the beautiful woman closer to her, eliciting whoops and cheers from the gathering throng._

_Julian was on the move now, delicately weaving his way through the revelers to the stage; Iris slipped into the path behind him. The memory shimmied her hips sinfully now, the flowing fabric of her pants pillowing around the sweetest swells of her body, her hands flung high above her head._

_It was then that Iris felt a familiar, but wholly unfamiliar rush of heat to her groin, a wave of desire that startled her, and...embarrassed her? She flushed, remembering that this was Julian’s memory, her eyes sliding over the broad back in front of her that she loved so dearly. She was feeling an unbidden blush of desire; Iris couldn’t blame him. The way her former self was flaunting, moving her body – what hot-blooded man wouldn’t be stirred?_

_That former self caught a glimpse of Julian weaving through the crowd, and her expression darkened visibly as he approached the stage. Calmly, he held a hand out to her, but his face was flushed. “Iris, please.” He entreated her quietly. Around him, women were murmuring and pointing at him, an interloper in their private world. Memory-Iris’s response was to slowly, sultrily, place a high-heeled foot on his shoulder before pushing him roughly away from the stage, making him stagger back, a deep flush rising on his sharp cheekbones. She grinned wickedly, turning around and bending over, shaking her ass at him mockingly._

_A guard approached him now, brow furrowed, her hand outstretched to grab Julian: “No men in the Orchid room!” She bellowed. He made to retreat, but an elegant hand fell on his shoulder, a coy smirk threatening to slink across burgundy lips. With a wave of her hand, Nadia shooed the guard way._

_“Let her dance her sorrow away.” Nadia murmured quietly to him, her lips nearly brushing his ear. She pushed a glass fizzy white wine into his hand: Golden Goose._

_“More like drink her sorrow away. How much has she had tonight?” Julian turned to her, his gaze stern. Despite him saying this, he took a hearty drink from his cup, draining nearly half of it._

_Nadia shrugged, leading Julian away from the crowd and stage to a secluded couch on raised platform. Iris kept dancing, sweat shining on her temples, across her collarbones, her navel. Nadia sank into the couch, folding her knees under her; Julian sat tentatively next to her, his posture more upright._

_“All things considered, I’d say she’s taking it well.” Nadia said quietly. “There’s no protocol for your lover fleeing in the night without you.”_

_Julian looked askance at Nadia, saying nothing, but the corner of the Countess’s lips curled darkly._

_“I have eyes and ears all over this palace, dear Ilya.” Nadia said quietly. “What Lucio did is despicable, but Iris cannot know.” She met his eyes fully now, her gaze unblinking. “We know her; she will go look for Asra, and Lucio will have them both hunted and killed. His mercenary horde will leave no trace of them. Of that, I am certain.” She took a sip of her drink, and looked away. “It pains me to deceive her, but it is the only way to guarantee her safety.”_

_Iris felt Julian’s heart clench in his chest as the song changed around them, the bass slower, but no less insistent. “You won’t have to deceive her very long if you let her drink herself to death.”_

_Nadia shook her hand at him, rolling her eyes. “She’s fine, good doctor.”_

_“Forgive my impertinence, Nadia, but you’re not the best judge of that.” Julian had been drinking – Iris could feel the rush, the lightness from the alcohol coursing in his veins, smudging everything just a little. But now, she saw the way Nadia’s eyes were unfocused, smelled her breath – she was drunk, too, perhaps even drunker than memory Iris had seemed._

_As if on cue, she appeared in the booth, her hand wrapped around the neck of an amber bottle of firewater; from this, she took a hearty swig, her eyes defiant as they roved over Julian. She let the bottle drop away from her lips with an obscene, wet pop, and Iris felt another stir of desire in Julian, saw the slight flush that rose on his sunken cheeks. Her former self saw it too, a wicked, crooked, drunken grin pulling her lips apart._

_“If you insist on following me, then at least come dance with me.” She said, one brow cocked; Nadia rose and held out a hand to Julian, her eyelids lowered slyly._

_Julian drained his drink and took Nadia’s hand, but not without rolling his eyes – Iris laughed impishly, baring her teeth, and turned back to the dance floor, shaking her hips, holding the bottle aloft over her head. Nadia winked at him and let go of his hand, trailing behind Iris with her fingertips on the small of her friend’s back._

_Once they were surrounded by the crush of bodies, Iris turned, looking at Julian out of the corner of her eye; she started to shake her hips again, shimmying up and down to the music, rolling her shoulders. She didn’t touch him, but watched him closely, amusement glinting in her eyes as she wordlessly invited him to dance with her. Julian let the rhythm move his feet, his hips, his shoulders; Iris knew he was a good dancer – give him a beat and he always knew what to do – but now, he was a little reluctant, his movements hesitant. Nadia handed him another glass of wine before she flitted away to dance with other partygoers; this, he drank greedily, a flush rising into his cheeks._

_“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this flustered.” Iris teased him, rocking her hips from side to side – through the translucent fabric of her pants, every curve, every place her skin cinched, every dimpling pillow of soft flesh, was visible. Julian’s eyes roved down, instinctually, and corporeal-Iris felt another hot rush of blood to her belly, another wave of embarrassment._

_“What’s the matter? You always have something to say, doctor.” Iris suddenly breached the distance between them, stepping forward and pressing her chest against his, rolling her waist so her breasts pillowed against him. “What’s got your tongue now?”_

_“Iris, don’t...” He pleaded quietly, but his body betrayed him; he was growing hard, and there was no way to hide it from her like this. She laughed darkly, her flared nostrils pulling her lips into a sneer._

_“Couldn’t even wait until Asra’s bed was cold to try and hop into it with me?” She said; her voice was coy, but her eyes were chilly. She was not merciful; she gyrated her hips into his in rhythm with the music, undulating her waist so the smooth skin of her midriff swelled and dipped._

_“Iris, I...that’s not it...” But he was a man in his prime, and the images rushed to him, images he’d seen before in his dreams, in his fantasies – his soaked face sunk in the gorgeousness between her legs; her pillowy lips wrapped around his cock, her starry eyes staring up at him through dark lashes; her on top of him, riding him hard, breasts naked and bouncing as she whined with pleasure –_

_And Iris snarled now as she read him, the images flashing before her mind’s eye. She pushed him away from her and turned around, presenting her ass to him. “Who knows, get me drunk enough, maybe you’ll get lucky,” she teased him, and backed into him, pressing herself into his crotch._

_With a quiver, he surrendered and touched her, his hands grasping at her hips. She bit her lip and arched her back into his chest, reaching back to touch his face with her palm as she danced on him. They moved together now, their hips pulsing in concert, Julian’s graceful fingers roving up to her naked waist. The two glasses of Golden Goose in short succession made him bolder, more impulsive; Iris’s head pounded a little as the edges of the memory grew fuzzier and undulated, like light shining through burning film._

_“Is this what you want, Iris?” He asked her, his low voice rumbling in her ear, his cool hands palming the sleek, sweat-drench skin of her waist, tangling in the bodychain, guiding her movements. For a moment, her face fell, her lips trembling; Iris saw that she didn’t know what she wanted, that she was taunting him because she was drunk and it helped her feel in control, the way drinking did, the way dancing did, because she felt powerless, helpless, alone..._

_“Just dance with me, Julian.” She said quietly, an expression of naked pain washing over her features. She took another swig from the bottle in her hand._

_He took the bottle from her, and took a long pull; it was almost gone now. “I can do that.” He said, spinning her around so she was facing him, wrapping his arm around her waist, a soft smile spreading across cheeks flushed from drink. Iris smiled, genuinely, secretly, and they danced, they danced._

Julian must have carried Iris to a bench closer to the gardens; when she awoke with a shiver, she was in his arms, on his lap, his cheek on her crown, his steady breath ruffling the undone bits of her hair. Over his shoulder, she could see the hedge maze, magnificently decorated, the soft gold and silver and white lights from the fountain shining up in the willows from the faraway center. 

“You...you were watching out for me after Asra left...” She murmured as she stirred. Julian clutched her closer to him. 

“Asra asked me to look after you.” He murmured, his lips near her ear. “To protect you from Lucio.” 

Iris’s fingers traced his cheek, his chin, bringing his gaze to hers. “But you weren’t looking out for me just for Asra, were you?” 

Julian laughed once, softly, the sound musical. “No. I…I’d wanted you since I met you. I...I cared for you. I wanted you to be safe.” 

“Darling…” Iris whispered, pressing her lips into his. They kissed, chastely, sweetly, for a long, lovely moment, before Iris drew away. “I was so out of control, I tormented you, and still...” 

“How could I not?” Julian breathed against her lips. “ _Draga moj_...you were in pain, I couldn't blame you, and I...”

Iris opened her mouth to interject when a sound reached them that made them both shiver. Sharp, hooked claws scraping on marble, accompanied by a sour, oppressive energy, tugging at Iris’s heart like a red thread needled through her flesh. Then...a nasal laugh, taunting, jeering. Out of the corner of Iris’s eye, she saw a shimmering shape hovering at the entrance of the hedge maze, red eyes flashing before it lumbered into the maze. 

“Julian!” Iris grabbed his hand as she stood quickly, tugging him upright. “I just saw him… Lucio…!” She shot down the stairs, pulling her dress up to her knees, kicking her slippers off into the long grass as she tore across the lawn. She had no idea what she would do when she caught him, but her intuition, that inexplicable tug, urged her forward. 

“Right behind you!” Julian easily kept pace, his stride nearly two of Iris’s, and soon they were whipping through the maze, Iris following the pull of her intuition, each twist and turn instinctual, until Iris and Julian stumbled out into the center of the maze, in front of the fountain of Capricorn, glowing, lustrous, in the light of the full moon. 

Iris froze, even as Julian’s hand found her shoulder, clutched it protectively, his dominant hand outstretched in front of him, ready to grab the knives and the revolver Iris knew were concealed under his suitcoat. Lucio was still in his ghost form, but he looked more solid than ever; Iris could see the reflection of moonlight in his velutinous horns, his snowy fur, even as his red eyes, like glowing coals, flashed with otherworldly menace. 

“Ah, Jules...I had hoped to have the pretty fool to myself, but no matter. The more the merrier, I always say.” His horrible mouth curled up into a grotesque smile. “But you knew that, didn’t you?” 

“Fuck you, Lucio.” Julian spat, his eyes steely, his lips curled into a dark sneer. His hand twitched closer to his holstered revolver, but Iris gently touched his hand on her shoulder, a warning. 

Lucio snorted. “Fitting. When we weren’t in bed together, you were always such a wet blanket. Plague this, death tolls that, Lazaret whatever.”

“Do you even know that you are the source of the plague, Lucio?” Iris asked softly, her voice dripping with disdain. “Or are you too dense to put it together on your own?”

Lucio grinned fully now, sending a shiver down Iris’s spine. “You’re thinking too small, little fool. Compared to what’s coming...the plague will be just one mosquito in the swamp.” He took a step forward, and Iris couldn’t help but notice that the grass bent with him, succumbing to his weight. He was solid, no longer fully formless. “But I’m not here to talk about the plague. My patron...he wants to extend a special offer to you, pretty fool. If you’re so worried about the plague, I’m sure you and he can come to an...agreement.” 

“If your patron is who we think he is, you can sit and spin if you think I’m going to make any deals with him.” Iris hissed. 

Lucio chuckled. “I’m feeling generous. I won’t tell him you said that. Think on it, pretty fool. It will be much easier for you if you don’t resist.” 

Iris shivered at the sound of those words, as Lucio cackled and his form dissipated in the moonlight. “When the moon is at its fullest, little fool. Two hours from now. Right here. Don’t be late...he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” By the time his voice faded into the night, he was gone, and Iris was fighting the heat, the simmering in her stomach, the memory that was engulfing her as she crumpled to her knees.

_*****Iris’s head pounded as her lashes fluttered against the swells of her cheeks, as she struggled to lift her head from her shoulder. She had passed out, she had drank too much...how much had she had? She could barely think straight, her every thought stretching and blurring, her every nerve dull, aching, empty…_

_She made to move her fingers to her temples, to massage them, but her hand jerked back to the arm of the chair she was sitting in with one liquid motion. Her brows furrowing stupidly in confusion, Iris tried again, but this time her hand jerked back even faster. There were no visible bindings, but Iris could feel a soft pulse of magic, dark, voidlike, at her wrists, around her ankles, her waist, her neck, as she tried to shift, to move. This chair...she remembered. This was one of the chairs they used in the dungeons to bind magic users. She tried to unloose herself with her magic, to search for her escape, but nothing came to her; the magic was drained from her, gone._

_The chair was hardbacked and wooden, simple; it was very out of place from the opulent bedroom, furnished in lavish reds and lustrous golds, a giant mahogany desk that looked as if it was barely used, bookshelf upon bookshelf of beautiful books whose spines had never been cracked, an obscenely ostentatious portrait facing the obscenely lavish four-poster bed, like a lush, monstrous mouth with a wet red satin tongue. Iris closed her eyes and counted to seven as she breathed in, then out, as panic rose like bile in her throat. She was in Lucio’s bedchambers. Iris wracked her hazy memory, looking for any encounter with Lucio in the night when she heard voices, shouting, outside of the door._

_In the bed, a long arm’s reach from Iris, the sound stirred a soft form that moaned gently but didn’t wake. Iris caught sight of a long tangle of amethyst hair, what was once a gorgeous updo now undone by drunken sleep; Nadia was naked in Lucio’s bed, her cheek pressed into her own shoulder as she slept heavily, fitfully, her kohl, her rouge, her glossy lipstick smeared over her face, the red satin sheets. Someone had done her the kindness of removing her jewelry, at least. Perhaps so she wouldn’t be strangled by her necklaces in the night._

_Iris’s senses were sharpening a little now; she turned towards the sounds of shouting, trying to make sense of what was happening. She heard two men’s voices, one she recognized immediately – raging, nasal, sniveling. Lucio. The second took her a moment, but when it hit her, like an arrow straight through her heart, it hurt – the softer one, the pleading one, husky and hoarse. Julian, her friend._

_No – the images came to her now. Earlier that night, they were dancing together, and not as friends, his hands on her hips, her waist, his lips on her ear, her neck, her hair. There were other memories, washed out and blurred together like the gardens in heavy rain, more drinking, more dancing...kissing? Her head pounded and she groaned a little, embarrassment and shame bubbling up in her, catching only snippets of their muffled conversation._

_“...she’s smashed...you can’t possibly...”_

_“...don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Jules...she will be held accountable...”_

_“...you’re barely scratched, be reasonable...”_

_And then the door burst open, the sound sending Iris reeling; Lucio strode into the room, one side of his face and neck bandaged heavily, some of the cuts still bleeding. Dark crimson speckled the collar of his shiny white suit, worn, of course, without a shirt; his fur cape had been removed, as had his gauntlet, his alchemical arm looking almost soft and human without it, the fingers curling into a tight fist as he slammed the door behind him. His glowering, imperious gaze fell on Iris, and she cowered, she coudln’t help it, suddenly very aware of her clothes – the see-through crimson blouse and pants, the lace and silk underpinnings – and very, very aware that her magic wasn’t singing soft in her veins, that comfortable hum she had never been without._

_Lucio’s lips twitched into a predatory smile at her reaction, and he said nothing as he crossed the room to a small bar covered in crystal bottles; there was a clink and the sibilant rush of pouring liquid. Then he was sitting on the bed, leaning so closely to Iris that their knees were almost touching. He offered the glass to her, the liquid crystal clear. Gorzalka._

_“I can’t drink that, asshole.” Iris muttered, rolling her eyes. At his moue of confusion, Iris lifted her wrists, and let them snap fluidly back to the wood, brows arched with annoyance._

_“Ah.” Lucio crooned, and leaned forward even further, so much that Iris could smell his cologne, aggressive black pepper, vetiver, and sandalwood, so much that the chains and pendants on his suit jacket dangled down and brushed against the bare skin of her stomach. He pressed the cool crystal to Iris’s lips; she recoiled, but she had no choice but to drink, letting the smooth, tasteless liquid wash over her tongue and burn faintly down her throat._

_“You’ve had quite the masquerade, haven’t you, pretty fool?” He murmured, almost fondly, almost. “You make a fool of me at my own birthday serenade, ruin my suit. Your little boyfriend abandons his post and leaves you in the night; with his bed still warm, you practically enchant the pants off of the good doctor; then you get hurricane drunk and singlehandedly knock out my personal bodyguard. And it’s only the second night.” He sat back on the bed, surveying her over the rim of the crystal as he took a drink. “What am I going to do with you?”_

_Iris said nothing, looking pointedly away. Her stomach turned as the gorzalka settled, and she wanted to throw up on the Rostam rug. When she said nothing, Lucio’s eyes flashed with annoyance, but he continued._

_“You know, a few inches to the left and your little stunt could have cost you your life. The Courtiers would have had your head on a pike before the bazaar opened. You should be grateful I only got a few scratches, though my suit is, well. Very ruined.” His eyes flashed, an angry amusement. “The second in two nights, no less.”_

_Iris snorted. “Maybe you shouldn’t wear satin suits, Lucy.”_

_Lucio slammed the crystal glass on the mahogany nightstand, making Iris jump. “You really are a petulant little slut, aren’t you?” He growled, his crimson eyes animal. Behind him, Nadia groaned again and turned over in her sleep, so the sheets pooled around her waist, revealing the smooth slope of her back._

_Lucio turned, his gaze tracing the silhouette his wife struck in his bed, before glancing back over his shoulder at Iris. “Treasa wanted you thrown in the dungeons for an assassination attempt, you know. She thinks I’m far too lenient with you.” Lucio traced the line of Nadia’s back with one cool, metal finger; Nadia shivered and arched in her sleep, but still didn’t wake. “She’s probably right. But I just can’t seem to help myself when it comes to you.”_

_Their eyes locked now, and Iris didn’t dare look away, even though she felt a cold well of terror flood through her. Lucio leered at her, licked his lips obscenely. “Nobody gave you permission to be as tantalizing as you are, little fool. Flaunting your body in that scandalous little number, teasing everyone with your doe eyes, your luscious lips, your...your disobedience…” He leaned into her again, and Iris couldn’t stop herself from pushing away, pressing back flush into the chair, her heart hammering in her chest._

_Lucio laughed darkly. “Do I frighten you now, little fool? Now that you can’t use magic? You’re just like your little boyfriend...without magic, he’s nothing but a whimpering whelp that I could crush under my boot.” He eyed Iris curiously. “What is it you saw in him, pretty fool? His power? I can give you power. I can give you riches, jewelry, furs, a wardrobe that even the Drakrian Sultana would envy. I could give you land, a title. You could spend your entire life dripping in gold and jewels. And yet, you chose him.”_

_Iris let out one cold, airless laugh, even as she quaked. “Oddly enough, Lucio, I don’t consider sex a transaction with which to buy things. I’d rather have love.”_

_Lucio quirked a wild, dark eyebrow at her, his face splitting into a wide grin. “And what has your love given you? Heartbreak? Asra left you. He ran away with his tail between his legs to save his own skin. A coward.”_

_Iris bucked forward, teeth bared. “Don’t fucking call him a coward.”_

_“Is it not cowardly to leave your so-called love in the clutches of the thing you fear most?” Lucio’s hand was now resting on the cinch of Nadia’s slender waist. He laughed lightly as he rolled her onto her back, baring her breasts to Iris; he traced a finger of his human hand down her breastbone to her ribs. “Perhaps was he such a good lover that you wanted to be kept by him, cowardice be damned?”_

_Iris sneered in disgust. “He didn’t ‘keep’ me, Lucy, I’m not a possession...that’s not how we work, that’s not how love works...”_

_Lucio was pulling the sheets down, revealing more of Nadia’s sleeping body, her navel, the sharp of her slender hips, her – Iris gasped in shock, in panic – sex, waxed bare. Lucio’s lecherous gaze flitted back to Iris, reveling in her horror. “If it were me, little fool...I would have never let you go…never abandoned you...”_

_“Lucio, stop –” Iris stammered, but he was kissing Nadia’s navel now, softly, sweetly, making it all the worse; she stirred a little in her sleep, but still she didn’t wake, even as Lucio trailed his long, pointed tongue over the smooth skin of her mound._

_“Let me show you what a tender lover I can be. You won’t let me touch you, but I can touch Nadia...” His crimson eyes flashed demonically at Iris now. “...and I can’t think of any more fitting punishment than showing you what you’re missing. Than making you watch.”_

_“Lucio, you can’t – she can’t – she’s drunk –” Iris cried._

_Lucio tutted with annoyance. “I grow so tired of my subjects telling me what I can and can’t do.” His long tongue dropped back down and he dipped his face between Nadia’s legs._

_Iris tried to turn away, but she was bound in place; she struggled against her tethers to no avail, tears glinting in her eyes as Nadia twitched, eyelids fluttering open slowly, heavily. Their gazes met, and after a terrible moment, Iris realized that Nadia was not just drunk, she was doped out of her mind; her normally sharp eyes were unfocused, her reactions terribly slow even as she recognized Iris, even as she registered what was happening. She could barely lift her hands, her head, as Lucio touched her. She tried to groan, to close her legs, but Lucio gripped the inside of her thighs and pushed them apart._

_“Now, now, Noddy...it will be much better for you if you don’t resist...” He murmured against her, and Nadia’s eyes fluttered shut again, a strained breath quivering against her lips._

_“Stop...please stop...” Iris sobbed feebly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she fought for her friend the only way she could._

_Lucio crooned with sadistic delight. “I’ve always wanted to hear you beg…” He went deeper, and Iris could only watch in horror as he forced himself on Nadia for an unknowable amount of time, an unending eternity of cruelty, until Nadia’s body betrayed her and a gentle orgasm bloomed through her. Lucio groaned with satisfaction, and when the last little wave washed over Nadia, he reared up, stripping his jacket from his shoulders and fumbling with the buckle of his belt…_

_Iris did something she had never done before. She screamed, every nerve in her body alight with pain as she summoned her magic to the surface, searing, sizzling just under the skin; she screamed and screamed, an earthshattering, void-rending scream, and the scene around her warped, softened and sharpened, as she forced it away, rejected the memory -_

_When she was spent, panting, her voice raw and needled in her throat, she collapsed back into the chair, tears streaming down her face. Lucio was standing, looking over his shoulder at Nadia sprawled out on the bed, his spend covering her navel, seeping from between her legs, nothing but a bored satisfaction in his eyes as he turned to Iris, shrugged his robe over his shoulders. Suddenly, suddenly, his ice-cold fingers were smeared over her lips, grasping her chin, horribly slick and human-scented, metallic-tasting, forcing her to meet his eyes, sickened, sickening, the ice-blue bright and unbelievable against the bloodied sclera. At the sight of the tears in her eyes, he laughed: not his high, nasal laugh, but a low, satisfied chuckle. “Never forget who’s really in control here, my pretty fool.” He purred, grinning, leering, and Iris wanted to die._

_He wrenched her face away with painful twist of her neck – in three strides, he was across the room, the door flung open. “Clean them up, and get them out of my sight.” He growled, not even looking to see who was there, some poor porter or chambermaid, as he flitted back to the bar, pouring himself another glass of gorzalka, sinking into an imperious, high-backed chair, back to them as he stared into the roaring fire._

_But it was Julian, sweet Julian, his gray eyes wide and bright with horror as he lingered in the doorway, one shaking hand on the doorframe. His gaze flitted, the frightened, scattered beating of bird’s wings, from Iris to Nadia to Iris again, then to Lucio – he opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then bowed his head, obedience, acquiescence._

_Iris turned away so he wouldn’t see her cry, her gaze pointed to the medical instruments on the bedside table. Tubes for samples, for swabs. Spools of downy guaze. Syringes. Bottles, all sizes, all a shadowy, mottled brown. The bed sank in her periphery, Julian’s voice hushed and low. She counted them, once, then again, then again, imagined what was in them, who distilled them, who grew the botanicals, who picked them, were they wild, were they cultivated, Iris arranging a slow symphony of faces and hands and warm smiles, sun dappled through verdant-smelling forest canopies, rolling fields of silphia root, pennyroyal blooms, blue cohosh, apricot orchards –_

_Iris started as his hand stretched into her view, closing not around anything on the table, but the crystal knob, opening the thin drawer – a tiny bottle, bluest blue, another clean syringe. She followed his fingers, gentle as they unstoppered the bottle and the sharp dipped in, the tiniest amount, hardly a kiss, in the syringe – then he bent low over Nadia, his voice soft and sweet again as the needle slipped between the skin of her arm, the plunger swimming down. He had cleaned her off, a rag draped, folded, over his knee; his other hand smoothed over her tangled hair as the muscles jerked and she groaned, quiet, quiet._

_For a moment, he was still, just bowed over Nadia, his eyelashes fluttering as his gaze lingered over the little bottle in his hand, the bright bright blue – it was then Iris recognized the label: blue cohosh._

_“Are you quite done, Jules?” Lucio growled from the corner, glass clinking impertinently on wood. “I’d like use of the bed.”_

_Julian’s head shot up, waves wild; there was a steeliness in his eyes, a sharpness, a certainty, one that Iris had only seen once, in a memory just like this. “You need your treatments before you sleep.” He reminded Lucio softly._

_Lucio groaned, letting his head roll in frustration before he stood. “...Fine.”_

_Julian snapped his fingers, the sound stark in the quiet room, and a guard seemed to materialize from the shadows, no – Iris realized, with a cold jolt to her heart, it was Bludmila. With a little nod from Julian, he scooped Nadia up in his arms, bridal carry, without anything to cover her, and slipped between the panels of the anteroom to Nadia’s chambers, the secret passage, safe from prying eyes._

_Iris trembled as Lucio approached again, his light eyes falling on her curiously. “And the fool?”_

_“I’ll take her.” Julian said softly; with a knowing half-smirk, Lucio sat on the bed, their knees almost touching, as he offered his human arm to Julian. Iris watched in a half-dazed awe as he prepared the treatments, a dose of this, a pill of that, and finally, a little kiss from the blue bottle, the needle sparkling as Julian prepared it._

_Lucio’s overdrawn brow arced. “What’s that?”_

_“It’ll help you sleep. Help the hangover tomorrow.” Julian murmured, gently tapping the skin, the vein standing up, a frightened blue, a human blue. Lucio shrugged, uncaring, and it was done, not even a whimper or a shiver from him as Julian removed the needle, discarded it, and stood. Lucio flopped dramatically into the bed, back away from the two of them, as Julian finally, finally turned to face Iris. Wordlessly, he offered his hand to her. It was then that she realized her bonds had been broken, long ago._

_She let him pull her upright, stumbling a little into his arms; he seemed to blanket her, his entire body wrapped around hers as he guided her away. “Are you...did he...” He murmured into her ear, barely audible._

_The door slid shut behind them, and Iris was shocked, somehow, to find them in the little anteroom. She realized then that she was shaking, barely able to stand, leaning so, so heavily into Julian’s strong arms. “No.” She breathed. “But...”_

_“I know.” Julian’s voice was small, and so, so quiet. “I’m sorry.” He was leading her down the stairs. To her room._

_“What...what did you give him?” Iris managed to mumble, as she counted the sconces as they seemed to float past in the dark. She tried to remember to take deep breaths, to count to seven, but it was too many things, her mind was racing, her heart was racing. And yet, Julian’s arm was around her shoulders, he smelled familiar, not like oranges, but like a bar. Alcohol, lots of it. But also the sea. It had been so long since she’d been to the beach, smelled the sea, but he smelled like her memories, like comfort, like warm._

_Julian laughed once, the sound soft and dark. “Blue cohosh.” His voice was cold, his eyes were cold. “A contraceptive.”_

_Iris’s brows furrowed. “Why…?”_

_“So he can’t do that again.” Julian muttered. “At least...not for a good 36 hours or so.” A door slid open in front of them. Her room. How had they gotten here?_

_And then he was leaning over her, laying her down carefully in the wide bed, she was enveloped in soft, oh, it smelled, it smelled like woodsmoke, and tea… she was crying, uncontrollably, everything too much now, everything out now, she was clinging to him as she buried her face in his shoulder, the sharp, the jut, the round of muscle._

_Julian shushed her, hesistant, tender – she felt the bed shift underneath her, his knee planted on the mattress, but still she clung to him. “Please...” She whined between sobs, uncertain what it was she was even pleading for. “Please...”_

_“Iris...” He began, voice calm, low. “No. I can’t.”_

_“I...” She shuddered. “I didn’t mean...j-just stay. I don’t...” Her lip trembled, and she could taste the salt of her own tears as they rushed over her cheeks. “Don’t leave me alone...”_

_His head dipped, low, on his long neck; it was then that Iris saw that he was exhausted, too, saw the bruises on his neck from her mouth, saw the still-drunk quiver of the muscles in his arms. With a resigned sigh, he clambered over her, his arm twining around her bare waist as he settled at her side, his chest so, so firm, so strangely cool, against her back._

_“Is this…?” He asked, his breath on her neck, and she nodded, her heart pounding, pounding, but she felt finally safe, at least, safe for now, his sleeping breath like an ocean in her ear, softly rocking her to sleep, the tender, painful ebb of drunken dreams washing over them both...*****_

Iris gasped for air, shaking, shivering, her knees quivering and soaked on the cold ground of the maze. Her face was pressed into feathers, her shoulders wrapped in Julian’s embrace, but he was quaking, too. He gripped her cheeks tightly and lifted her chin to meet his gaze, eyes wild with panic. “Iris, you were screaming, I couldn’t...I couldn’t wake you...” 

Iris fisted her fingers in the fabric of his coat, the clamor of emotions echoing through her deafening. “He...Lucio...he made me watch...while he...while he...” She was sobbing, she couldn’t say it… 

Julian held her closer, stroked her hair even as he trembled with her. “He can’t hurt you.” He whispered into her ear. “He can’t hurt anyone anymore.” 

“He can if we don’t stop him...” Iris wailed into his jacket, panic rising again in her throat, suffocating her; she gasped for breath but nothing came. Julian cooed in Nivenese in her ear, the same lilting phrase over and over again, running a hand gently over her back and soothing her back earthside while another panic attack wracked her, while she thought her body would collapse onto itself, into the void.

“We have to stop that ritual.” Iris finally muttered, after she had settled, after her breath, her heartbeat, came back to her. Julian kissed her temple, rested his chin on her head.

“Yes.” Julian muttered quietly. “Yes, we do. If it’s the last thing we do.” He swallowed, and Iris could feel the thickness in his throat against her flushed face. “Was there anything else in the memory that could be a lead?”

“I...I hurt him, somehow. He had scratches all over his faces. I think you were the one who sewed him up.” 

Julian cringed visibly, his whole body tensing. “I remember.” 

“Show me.” Iris pulled back, meeting his eyes. “Please...” 

“Iris...you were just re-traumatized, you had a panic attack, we should slow down...” 

“Show me!” Iris shouted, louder than she intended, but she was boiling now, just under the skin, urgency firing through each and every one of her nerves, power welling in her core, a little of her magic eking out of her fingers, ruffling the grass of the lawn, a shower of sparks of all colors bursting forth from her palms. Julian’s eyes shot open, and Iris saw something she had never seen before – a fear, not the fear of the unknown, the fear of himself, but a fear, a fear of her, as warmth dissolved them both…

_It was a masquerade, but unlike any other that Iris had ever seen; she didn’t even recognize this part of the palace. The air was hazy, cloying, dense with the scent of decadent incense, and the music was deafeningly loud – pounding bass and percussion, throaty singing, magically amplified to an absolutely heartcrushing volume. The revelers were packed shoulder to shoulder, half-naked, grinding along to the rhythm. There were fountains overflowing with wine, mead, firewater. There were even partygoers who appeared to be fucking right out in the open, against walls, on the many couches and beds placed in the rooms and hallways. This may as well be an opium den, Iris thought, before catching sight of Asra’s shock of white hair across the room._

_Iris shadowed her way behind a tall partygoer and pushed her way through the crowd. She realized the man she was tailing was Julian, in his immaculately tailored black suit and ruffled red silk shirt; she was so close to him that she could smell his scent, stirring her. The revelers recognized Julian, too, and practically parted the sea of bodies for him; she remembered darkly that he was, for a while, one of Lucio’s favorites._

_The border of a red card peeked out of his front jacket pocket: a Tarot card, and though she couldn’t see the artwork, she knew which one it was – the Hanged Man. Julian finally broke out of the crowd to where Asra was waiting in his white velvet cape, his beautifully embroidered shirt, his expression steady and emotionless behind his shimmering gold fox mask._

_They both turned to the guard who was standing watch against a lavish wood-paneled wall. With a practiced move, Julian and Asra flashed their Tarot cards; even though they were only visible to her a moment, Iris saw them: the Magician and the Hanged Man, painted with her lovers’ likenesses. The Hanged Man had hooks through his back, the skin tented as he hung in mid-air, dripping in blood, which mingled with the artist’s rendering of Julian’s auburn hair. The Magician stood naked on a pile of writhing bodies, his robes sloughed on the ground, holding the four suits in his arms while pale arms reached up his planted legs. The guard nodded once, and the panel sprang away; Asra and Julian stepped through swiftly, and Iris stumbled to keep up before the panel snapped shut behind them._

_The passageway was dark, echoing, damp, but Julian and Asra descended the narrow stairs without a second thought. The stairs went down and down and down, until Iris thought they would end at the maw of hell, but the ground leveled and they arrived at a large, lavish corridor, illuminated dimly by torchlight. There was a simple wooden door at the end; Asra and Julian strode to it with urgency, but Iris couldn’t help but catch the sidelong glance Asra stole at Julian; their eyes met for a moment before darting away. She knew her lovers well enough to read them without clairvoyance. Asra was furiously angry – Julian, absolutely terrified._

_They flashed their cards again to the guard, who, Iris realized with a shock, was stark naked, save for his mask, which was covered in spikes. He nodded, and swung the door open for them. “Welcome to the Punishment room, honored guests.”_

_The energy that bloomed out of the room was blinding, scorching, dangerous, like running into a burning building; it took all of Iris’s resolve not to back out of the memory and to follow her lovers inside. The walls were a lush velvet, a deep red, the ceilings impossibly high and vaulted. The stench of opium and cannabis perfumed the air, mingled with the same sickly incense. Five gilded poles, arranged in a circle and surrounded by lavish, golden tables, featured a completely naked woman, chained to the pole by her neck, with enough slack to allow them to dance. Piled high on the tables were carafes of deep red wine, cheese, chocolates and exotic fruits, and, Iris realized with disgust, moldy and rotten produce, which the chosen guests threw at the women whenever they stopped dancing – Iris watched with horror as an older, stately looking man forcefully threw a spoiled melon at a girl who couldn’t be more than 15._

_At the end of the room, the tip of the pentacle, was Lucio, lounging sideways on a lush throne with an over-full glass of red wine in his hand, his leg lazily tossed over the arm of the chair. Though he was flanked by the lady Consul, swathed in black velvet, and a few other loyal companions, he looked extremely bored with the scene; yet, his eyes glittered when he saw Asra and Julian cross the room. He rose from his throne, and Asra and Julian both slipped into deep bows, one hand touching the ground._

_“Welcome to the Punishment room, boys.” Lucio’s voice boomed over the music. “Now we can have some fun.” He sank back into his throne with a loud thump, nearly spilling his wine. “Jules – come sit with me.” He gestured to the chair next to him, which was quickly vacated. Julian, with only a moment’s hesitation, sank into the seat; he was quickly brought an overfull glass of wine, which he did not drink from._

_Lucio turned his glittering sneer to Asra. “I’ve become bored of the entertainment in this room. Perform some wonders for us.”_

_Asra could barely contain his disgust, but as Lucio waved his hand to the musicians and the music changed, Asra disappeared in a puff of smoke and appeared in the center of the room with a flash of harmless purple lightning. The partygoers twisted their heads around to watch him, the ensnared women forgotten._

_He performed his wonders with gusto; blinding and dazzling illusions of rainbows and waterfalls, stampedes of antelope and lions on the savannah, filling the room with underwater sea creatures that glimmered like jewels. He even recreated the night sky in the vaulted ceiling, complete with spinning planets, shimmering images of the constellations, shooting stars, a comet, opalescent and cloaked in purple haze, careening through the sky. Though Iris knew it pained him to use his magic for Lucio’s entertainment, she couldn’t help but be amazed at his skill, his fine craftsmanship; her heart swelled with pride, with love. When he finally swept his cape into a bow, the room exploded with applause, including a few cursory claps from Lucio._

_“Good work, Asra. You’ve earned a reward.” Lucio purred, his eyes narrowed. He snapped his fingers, and a door on the side of the room opened. A guard led out another naked woman by a chained collar, who crawled into the room on all fours. Even from her vantage point far from Lucio, Iris could see the woman was covered in bruises and lacerations from abuse; her matted blond hair was tied into a long, low braid. Lucio gestured to the woman grandly as she approached Asra; she kept her head down, never meeting their gaze. Iris felt sick to her stomach; she saw Julian’s face contort with horror out of the corner of her eye._

_“Ta-da! Your reward. Perhaps you could pretend she is the pretty fool.” Lucio’s eyes glimmered sadistically as he stroked his chin. “I noticed you did not bring her with you when I summoned you, as I requested.”_

_“She is entertaining the Countess, as is her duty, Lucio.” Asra said icily. He was shaking, now, with rage._

_Lucio’s playful demeanor dropped, and he leered at Asra, drawing himself to his full, towering height. He hissed, “I’ve rewarded you even though you disobeyed me! Do not disobey me again – humiliate this slut who refused me, or it’s you who’ll be in her place.”_

_Julian laid a hand on Lucio’s gilded arm as he carefully formed an expression of disinterest. “Lucio, this is boring...” He pouted._

_Lucio wrenched his arm away and, mercury-quick, slapped Julian’s face with the back of his hand; there was a gut-wrenching smack of metal on bone, and crimson bloomed from Julian’s brow over what would, in the future, be his good eye._

_Asra couldn’t contain his anger any longer; his eyes glowed a bright violet, and for a moment, Iris was frightened of his power. There was a flash, a sickening crack – when the light dissipated, Lucio was prostrate, naked, and bound where the woman was; she was dressed in rich robes, seated on his throne, her body healed and scrubbed clean._

_The room was still as Death for a moment, before it bubbled, boiled, burst into laughter – some tentative and terrified, others finding the twisted joy in seeing Lucio get what he deserved. Iris was compelled out of the room, spirited through the opposite door into a small but bustling kitchen._

_She located Asra and Julian quickly in a servant’s hallway some several hundred yards away, both of them completely out of breath. Asra was drenched in sweat; all the magic he just performed had exhausted him, depleted his stores of magic. Julian clutched his head and groaned; the eye had already swelled shut, the browbone shattered._

_“You know you just condemned that woman to a fate worse than Death.” Julian muttered._

_Asra didn’t respond, but reached out to hold his hand over Julian’s dripping brow. “Did you really think that ruse would work back there?” He asked. There was a soft golden glow and a snapping sound as the bones in Julian’s face knit themselves back together, the skin renewing itself. Asra wrenched his hand away as if each and every nerve of his arm were on fire; he was quickly fading, a cinderspell away from passing out._

_“Thank you,” Julian muttered. “I had to try something. We don’t all have magic; some of us actually have to use our brains.” He gingerly touched his eyebrow, checking Asra’s work._

_Asra didn’t respond to Julian’s jab; he was pacing now, still trembling in his fury. “Those poor women...”_

_Julian grabbed Asra’s shoulder. “You can’t save everyone. Just be glad it’s not Iris down here. It easily could be.”_

_Suddenly, a sickening screech of metal on stone rang through the hallway; Lucio ran headlong into Asra, slamming him into the wall. He’d thrown on a short, scarlet robe, undoubtedly something kept in the many clandestine bedrooms there under Lucio’s wing. His face was beet red, veins popping in his forehead. With his red eyes, he looked truly monstrous, warped, terrifying._

_Lucio clutched his right hand around Asra’s throat and squeezed – Asra gasped for air as Lucio choked him, and Iris gagged sympathetically. Julian reached instinctively to his side, and unholstered the revolver strapped to his chest, clicking the safety back as he drew it up, but Asra used the very last of his magic to cast a barrier, protecting Julian from Lucio._

_“You’re not so powerful without your magic, are you, you sniveling wretch?” Lucio growled. “I’ve tolerated your insolence for far too long, Asra. You will submit to me, or you will regret it.” Iris watched with panic as Asra struggled under his crushing grip, his normally strong hands clawing feebly at Lucio’s._

_“You have two choices; stay in my court and submit to my will – my every will. Or, leave and never come back. But if you stay and you refuse me again, it will be your head...no...” A twisted, grotesque grin stretched across Lucio’s face._

_He leaned in and whispered in Asra’s ear. “It will be the pretty head of the fool. I’ll chain her to my bed and rape her every night until there’s nothing left of her but the blood on your hands.”_

_He released Asra, who collapsed to the floor, wheezing for breath, tears welling up in his eyes. Lucio laughed at him. “If you’re still in my court tomorrow morning, I will consider that your decision. Oh, and Asra...” His eyes gleamed. “No matter what, the pretty fool must stay. I don’t think poor Noddy could take it. If she leaves with you, I’ll hunt you both down and crush you like ants under my thumb. Jules...” He glanced back, with something akin to amusement, at the revolver pointed at him, shaking in Julian’s trembling hands. “...don’t hurt yourself.” With that, he turned on his naked heel and left._

_The barrier fell, and Julian rushed to Asra’s side, shoving the gun back into its holster as Asra sputtered, regaining his breath. For once in his life, Julian was dumbstruck._

_Asra coughed and clutched at his throat, and Iris saw tears – not tears of pain, but tears of sorrow and confusion – run down his face. “What do I do…?” He gasped, panic alighting his every nerve, searing through Iris. Julian shook his head, gap-mouthed._

Iris jerked away from Julian as the cold cascaded over her like snowfall, her teeth chattering, her hands shaking. “That...? Is that…?” She could barely get the words out. “Was that after I…?” 

Julian was shaking, shaking, his hands on her cheeks, but she arched away, tried to look away – his lips were trembling. “ _Draga, draga moj_ , I’m sorry, that wasn’t what I meant, it wasn’t...sex was power to him, Iris, you have to understand – if someone refused him, then it was a game, a hunt, and he would do anything, anything to win...exploit any weakness...” 

“Julian.” Her voice was deadly calm, even as the tears rolled down her cheeks. “Was that after the serenade?” Inside of her was a void, consuming everything in its quiet, unending sadness. “Did he do that because of me?” 

Julian said nothing, his mouth opening once, soft, shattered breath, closing again. His eyes were wet, too. 

A soft, soprano voice startled them both as it called to them from the other side of the fountain. “Ilya? Iris?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> do you ever
> 
> write something
> 
> and then you have to walk away and take a shower and think long and hard about what you’ve done and like maybe have a panic attack about it
> 
> but the work demands it, and what are you but the conduit for the work
> 
> just me? cool. 
> 
> See you in part 2.


	14. The Devil, Part 2: But You Keep Feeding The Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Gorillaz, Vince Staples - Ascension // Björk - Joga**
> 
> _CW: Excessive drinking, drug use, animal abuse, graphic depictions of violence, entrapment, depictions of slavery, depictions of homelessness, MCD referenced, noncon/ambicon referenced_

Portia removed her ribboned cat mask as she did everything, with an exaggerated but precise movement, wild, springy red curls escaping from her bun. “We heard shouting…?” Her wide eyes fell on Iris, weak in Julian’s arms, both of them red-eyed and trembling; her mouth dropped open in panic as she rushed to their side. 

“ _Dobro smo, Paša_.” Julian muttered, but his voice wavered. “Iris was having some trouble with her head.” 

Portia’s eyes flashed knowingly. “Don’t patronize me, Ilya. She’s shaking. _Dođi samnom_.” Portia hauled both of them up – Iris was shocked at how strong she was. “Nadi, I mean ...Milady’s ….err, Nadia’s private tent isn’t far.” 

Portia led the two of them deftly through the hedges to a little clearing where a regal gazebo stood, draped in beautiful blue tapestries embroidered with the phases of the moon and images of the Arcana: the Magician, the High Priestess. The two guards sprang out of the way as Portia wordlessly parted the curtain and ushered Iris and Julian inside. 

Nadia and Asra were sitting at a low, lavish table set with all sorts of treats, fruits, chocolates, delicate pastries, wine; at Asra’s feet, Vasalisa lounged, with Faust coiled lazily on her back. Lush silver lanterns were suspended from the gazebo’s ceiling, casting the makeshift tent in starry light that caught in Nadia’s hair, the soft, wild tendrils that framed her face before sweeping back into an intricate updo. Images of Nadia’s hair splayed out on red satin bedsheets flashed behind Iris’s eyes, and she felt the color drain from her face as her stomach turned, as she leaned a little more into Julian’s hand around her waist. 

At the sight of Iris’s ashen face, Asra shot out of his seat and crossed the carpeted floor in three bounding strides, his hands falling on Iris’s shoulders, eyes flashing from Iris to Julian to Iris. “My heart, you’re white as the moon...” A soft, wet nose pressed itself into Iris’s hand; it was Vasalisa, licking Iris’s fingers and wrists, trying to calm her. 

“Lucio appeared to us in the maze.” Julian explained darkly. “He was much more…ah, corporeal this time. Iris… she had a panic attack...” Iris, with a rush of gratitude, gave him a gentle squeeze; the memories had left her so raw that she wasn’t ready to relay them to Asra, much less Nadia. 

“Let the poor woman lay down.” Nadia fretted, and Iris found herself situated between Asra and Julian, her head in Julian’s lap with him stroking her hair, her legs flung over Asra’s, his warm hand resting on one of her calves while the other held her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles comfortingly; a gentle calming spell spread through her, soft and soothing. Vasalisa wrapped herself around Iris’s side, her muzzle resting on her stomach, the softest, faintest whine rising from her throat, even as Iris petted her, attempted to soothe her, just as Vasalisa did for her.

“What did Lucio want?” Asra asked, his voice thin. 

“He extended an invitation from the Devil.” Iris murmured. “But just to me.” 

“Why just you? What could the Devil want?” Nadia wondered, pouring herself another full glass of chilled white wine. 

“The Fool’s body.” Asra muttered. “It has to be a trick.” 

“I know.” Iris said quietly, letting her head fall heavily back into Julian’s lap. “But Lucio said it would be much easier if I didn’t resist.” 

“Of course he would say that.” Nadia said, voice grim, eyes steely, and Iris’s heart twisted again, breath sharp in her throat. “He’s trying to get you to play into their hand. If we can resist, Iris, we must.” 

“I know.” Iris repeated, a little sharply; she felt Julian’s hand tightened around her shoulder. “We’ll have to do everything we can to fight it.” 

“You won’t have to face it alone.” Asra's voice was fierce, fierce but sweet, soothing. “I’ll be there with you.” His eyes flitted up to Julian’s, fiery and determined. “Ilya will be, too.” 

“Like I would let the two of you face the Devil alone.” He said with a smirk, though Iris could sense the pulse of fear in him. 

Portia cleared her throat. “If the actual Devil is going to be present at this masquerade, should we put the contingency plan in place, Nadia?” 

Nadia’s brows furrowed for a moment. “I don’t want to cause a panic. But it will harm no one to warn the staff to be at the ready.” She stood from the table, and Portia stood abruptly with her. “We should prepare for the worst. Portia, I’m sorry to ask this of you on a night off, but please gather my sisters and see to it that they know their roles in the plan, and that they are protected.” Her eyes flitted to the three lovers. “You three...please feel free to prepare here, however you may need. I will see to it that you are not disturbed.” 

With a final, imperious sweep of her gown and a subtle sparkle of her eye, Nadia flitted out of the gazebo, with Portia hot on her heels, leaving the threesome quite alone. 

Julian smoothed a graceful palm across Iris’s hair. “You should rest, _draga moj._ ” He pressed his lips into Iris’s forehead, his eyelids fluttering shut; he was just as exhausted as she was, from reliving all those horrifying, confusing memories.

Iris wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her lips, kissing him deeply. “Only if you rest with me.” She felt Asra’s warmth against her skin, and she gripped his hand tighter. “You too, Asra.” 

Asra smiled mysteriously, but only gave Iris’s hand a soft squeeze before he stood. “Before we rest...” He crossed the small tent to a beautiful cabinet covered in glittering glass bottles. His clever fingers fell on a colorful matchbook of incense, lighting one with a soft, effortless breath. The air around them immediately changed, the scent delicious but completely unrecognizable, something that Iris couldn’t ever recall smelling before...or so many beautiful scents she loved, jumbled into one delicious, harmonious blend. 

As the incense burned, impossibly slow, Asra sank down beside Iris, his head nestled into Julian’s lap next to hers; he traced his fingers over the bare inside of her arm, and she felt something like sparks jump from her skin, little glyphs visible under his touch, orange and pink and blue and white, smoothing through her skin in soft designs. Even in the air, Asra’s aura spilled out in tendrils, drawing fantastical designs in the air, curliques and flowers and runes and characters like those from the lost era. 

“What is this?” Iris breathed softly; even her words were visible in the night air, the color of her shifting, opalescent aura, as they wrote themselves on history. 

“This incense makes magic visible.” Asra whispered to her, his breath hot in her ear; Iris could see his words, written in gentle Vesuvian, as they drifted through the air, dissolving into the ether. 

Iris turned to Julian, looking into his wide eyes. “Darling, can you see?” 

He inhaled softly before he answered, his mismatched eyes gently tracing the slope of her chin, the soft willowy wisps of magic emanating from her, from Asra, from him. “ _Nevjerojatan._ It’s beautiful.” Iris ran her hand over his neck, and shuddered with delight as wine-red sparks jumped from his skin, swirling with the opalescent and purple designs that filled the air. 

“Look...” She whispered, her eyes heavy and lidded. “That’s your own magic, darling. It’s gorgeous.” 

Julian’s brows furrowed, the words, the auras, tangling into sweet red-violets, pinks, lavenders, fuchsias. “Is this…?” 

“This is us. Together.” Asra whispered, his hand clasping Julian’s over Iris’s chest, their intertwining fingers resting over her heart. “Our...our magic, all three of ours, intermingling...” 

“ _Slatki med_...” Julian whispered, a phrase that Iris didn’t recognize, but she realized it wasn’t for her; she felt Julian and Asra’s hands clasp tighter over her bare chest, and she saw the mixing of their magic, their power, over her, red-violet, fuchsia, swirling beautifully, just tinged with her own shimmering opalescence…

There was a softness in her eyes, even as she felt her eyelids drop, even as she felt Asra shift on her one side, Julian shift below her, their lips meeting above her, the kiss ringed by the soft silver light of the lanterns above them, their magic dancing in the air. She drifted into a gentle sleep, riddled with heated dreams…

_The light haloed harshly in Iris’s eyes, making her shield them; when the light faded, she was on the dancefloor in the Orchid room, but from a different vantage point. Everything was shaky, like the ribbon on the reel spinning loose. In front of her, Julian and a vision of her former self, the see-through red pants and shirt, the braid, the blue kohl, were dancing together, her back pressed to his chest, his suit coat discarded and several buttons of his shirt ripped open. Nadia had joined them, her long, glistening arms wrapped around Iris’s shoulders, their hips slipping against each others. Julian watched them, captivated, as Nadia leaned closer and, with a knowing, teasing flick of her eyes to his, pressed her lips against Iris’s, her tongue between Iris’s teeth…_

_The halo burnt bright again, and they were all at the bar in the back of the Orchid room, knocking back shots of strong-smelling anise liquor, acid green. Memory-Iris stuck her tongue out long as she grimaced from the taste, the burn, and she caught Julian staring at her as he licked the liquor off his lips. She splayed two fingers in a V over her mouth, the tip of her tongue pooling, lewd, in the crook of her fingers…_

_A flash of light, and they were in a different room now, more private, plush couches; two of the Drakrian belly dancers, the ones who were the closest to naked, were dancing together in front of Nadia, seated, laughing riotously, grasping another glass of Golden Goose. But Iris and Julian were in a world of their own, their tongues tangling drunkenly as Iris sat in his lap, his hands smoothing over the bare skin of her waist, her hands in his hair…_

_The two of them in the garden now, Iris leading Julian in a full run through the maze to the fountain, her wild laughter ricocheting through the dark. She was carrying another bottle, Virgin Dew, and she was stumbling, very drunk, too drunk. They reached the center, the fountain, bedecked in golden ribbons and lotuses dipped in gold flake. Iris turned to Julian and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, the bottle knocking hard against his shoulderblades; he was so drunk that if he noticed, he didn’t let on. They kissed, wet, sloppy, his hands on her waist again but when she made to lift his shirt, he pulled away._

_“Iris, no...” He said thickly. “We’re too...you’re too...”_

_“Too what?” She slurred, stepping back from him, her eyes growing icy. She took a swig from the bottle, swaying a little._

_“Too...” He reached for the bottle, but she yanked it out of his grasp. “Smashed.”_

_“Who cares?” She retorted, sneering, stumbling. “I want this, you want this.”_

_“This isn’t what you want.” He murmured, his expression plain – compassion, pity. It turned Iris’s stomach. “I’ve been here before. It doesn’t hurt less in the morning.”_

_Iris’s sneer couldn’t grow wider, more ferocious. “You...you don’t know what the fuck I want.”_

_“Iris...” Julian began quietly, calmly, taking a tentative step towards her. “I’m just...j-just trying to protect you...”_

_Iris laughed darkly now, voice syrupy, thick, drunk. “From what, from you? The good, gentle doctor, so sweet, so sensitive? You talk big, Juli, but you couldn’t step on an ant if you wanted to.” She stood tall now, cocking one of her hips out, highlighting the cinch of her hourglass waist, the swell of her hips, while taking another indecent swig from the bottle. “I’m a big girl, you know. You don’t need to protect me, from you...from anything.”_

_Julian’s face fell. “Iris...I-I don’t want it this way. Let me, erm...let me walk you to your room, put you to bed...”_

_Iris’s smile was absolutely devilish as she leveled her eyes with his, her neck long, looking up at him through dark eyelashes. “So you haven’t spent the whole night imagining me on my knees, choking on your cock?” She was so close now, her lips soft and open, the corners lifting just so, teasing, teasing; he, Iris, they could both smell the sour of wine on her breath. “Pinning me to the bed and licking my cunt until I’m gushing, just for you? Throwing my legs over your shoulders and fucking me senseless, making me scream so loud the whole palace knows what we’re doing? If you don’t want it...” Her eyes flashed. “Say it’s not true.”_

_The blush that rose on Julian’s face was deep and fierce, spreading from his ears to the skin that peeked through his open shirt, through the hair that darkened his chest. Still, his voice was even, his eyes gentle, when he spoke next. “Would you be doing this if Asra was here?”_

_The anger that arced through Iris was blinding, consuming, surging through her like lightning. “You don’t fucking know me at all. I’m not a child; you can’t control me.”_

_Iris wouldn’t have even heard the earsplitting crack if Julian didn’t startle, stagger back, land hard on his ass and scramble backwards away from her, fire reflected in his terrified eyes._

_Iris wheeled around, the oppressive heat licking her shoulders, her bare waist; the willow behind her was consumed in crimson, carmine, and cobalt flames, some branches still sparking, electrified with bright white energy._

_For a moment, Iris stood in the heat, letting it wash over her, basking in it, her eyes wild and brutal. Then, she lifted her arm and turned her hand slowly; a soft circle of white light flashed around the willow, and the licking flames receded, the burnt bark, scorched boughs, healing and regrowing as Iris turned back the clock. With her chest heaving, she turned back to Julian, who stared at her through wide, wild eyes – the willow just as it was moments before, gently swaying branches catching the full moon’s light and tossing it playfully through the gardens._

_“Are you scared of me?” Iris whispered, regaining her breath; a sheen of sweat cloaked her brow, her neck, her shoulders, her back. She wanted to sink to her knees, they wobbled, she had exerted so much magic that the corners of her vision blackened, burnt, but she stood firm, her pride demanding it. She felt blood running down her cupid’s bow, onto her lips, the metal tang of it on her teeth, her tongue, but she refused to wipe it away. “You should be.”_

_Julian furrowed his brows, in confusion, in sadness, his eyes vibrating as he regarded her; he opened his mouth to respond, but a sound sliced through the gardens and shook both of them. It was the gut-wrenching, guttural roar of a wild animal, steeped in bone-deep pain._

_Iris responded first, scrambling across the field and into the labyrinth, towards the noise, ripping through the turns, the forks, the manicured hedges rushing past her as she let her intuition guide her to the sound. She was only half aware of Julian behind her, keeping pace with her on his long legs, easily navigating each twist, each turn, never letting her slip out of his sight._

_Finally, they broke out of the edge of the maze that opened to the south end of the palace, the one that faced Lucio’s wing; Iris was hardly ever over here, but she knew there was a pitch where Lucio sometimes sparred with visiting warlords or friends from his mercenary days. It was this pitch that Iris and Julian stumbled upon now, surrounded by patches of cheering bystanders, but they didn’t need to shoulder through to the sidelines to see what was happening._

_A female grizzly bear stood on her hind legs, chained to the end of the pitch; on the other end, bleeding profusely from his temple and from deep, clawed gashes across his ribs, was Muriel, his battleaxe wielded protectively in front of him as he panted, his shoulders slumped. He shifted, as if to move to attack, and the bear roared again; it was then that Iris and Julian saw the gaping wound on her shoulder, blood matting her fur, eyes wild with fear as she lurched against her chains, ready to tear Muriel apart._

_Iris’s eyes fell to Muriel, Asra’s oldest friend, her friend; trails of tears were streaming down his cheeks. He was hesitant, reluctant, and it was this reluctance that led to the wounds that bled profusely from his chest, his forehead, making Iris dizzy and panicked at the sight._

_Horrible nasal cackling split the night with its twisted mirth; Lucio lounged on the tall balcony of his suite, two beautiful courtesans, young, bright, lounged on each of the arms of the small throne that had been placed there, their hands tracing lazily over the swells of Lucio’s chest. Even from her far vantage point, Iris could see his crimson eyes sparkle with amusement as Muriel calculated his next move, the bear howling again in her unbelievable pain._

_“Come on, Scourge….” Lucio taunted, his voice cutting easily through the din as the late-night crowd around the pitch whooped and hollered. “You’ve taken down more ferocious opponents than this with your hands tied...”_

_The bear roared again, and Iris saw Muriel shudder as he raised his axe; fresh tears glittered against his cheeks as he prepared to charge, to strike. The rage Iris felt only minutes before surged through her, and she did the only thing she could drunkenly think to do; she took the bottle in her hand and, with only a moment’s consideration of aim, hurled it with a resounding cry through the sparkling night air._

_The bottle spun wildly on its trajectory, and Iris heard Julian cry out feebly, too late, his hand clutching her shoulder, sending sweet sparks down her spine even as chaos ensued; the bottle would have hit its mark, Lucio’s head, had Muriel not charged ahead at that exact moment. The beautiful bottle struck his temple and shattered into a constellation of glass and wine, scattering like buckshot and striking Lucio square in the face, shredding the skin of his left cheek, his consorts ducking out of the way at the last second. Poor Muriel crumpled to the ground as if Death herself had landed a haymaker on his jaw._

_There was stillness, silence, as the audience took in what had just happened, and then, bedlam; rough hands, grabbing, guards, she resisted, she heard Julian shout and struggle next to her as Lucio screamed in the background, and then she felt the light leave her as her vision blacked, as she faded into the void…_

Iris awoke from her dreams with her head laid on Julian’s shoulder, her cheek pressed into soft feathers; Julian’s arm was wrapped around her back, his graceful hand softly gripping the swell of her just above the crook of her arm. Her forehead was pressed against his neck, but her lips were against soft, pillowy white hair; Asra was laying on Julian’s chest, snuggled against Iris’s neck. His warm arm was wrapped around her waist, his opposite hand curled against the bare skin of Julian’s chest, fingers slipping through the flung-open lapels of his suit jacket, all three of their legs braided together in a comfortable, intimate embrace. 

Iris’s eyelids fluttered as she adjusted to the low light of the room, the silver lanterns above them sputtering, oil running low. The incense had dissipated, leaving behind only a feeling like a night after heavy drinking, an aching sadness in Iris’s chest, a tired emptiness. She kissed Asra’s hair and stretched, nuzzling her forehead into the silkiness that cloaked Julian’s neck, before rolling away from the two of them. 

She rubbed her eyes, careful not to smudge the kohl around her eyelashes, and felt a familiar brush of heat against her elbow; Vasalisa, nudging her head under Iris’s arm, begging to be pet. Iris ruffled her ears, cooing at her quietly, before she stood and exited the tent for some fresh air, familiar trotting at her heels. 

The gazebo was situated in a clearing close to Nadia’s wing of the palace, the east wing, opposite of Lucio’s. Iris knew that only a few minutes’ brisk walk away was the pitch from the memories she just recovered; she shuddered recalling the images to her mind’s eye, the way she sneered at Julian, the terrifying flaming willow, the way the alcohol pounded through her veins, the horrifying aftermath. She inhaled shakily, and then exhaled, the crisp night air starry and crystalline in her lungs; her breath spun out before her like a spider’s web in the chill. 

Iris was considering what time it was, what their next move should be, when a lightfooted rustle reached her ears, alerting her that she wasn’t alone; at her side, Vasalisa huffed gently before rushing forward to the arched entrance of the hedge maze, tackling Inanna to the ground. Iris smiled softly as a hulking figure materialized from the dark; Muriel, striking an odd image, his bearskin cloak thrown over his unbuttoned brown and gold suitcoat, his green eyes downcast and cloudy. 

“Muriel...” She called quietly, the images rushing to her – the gushing wound matting his long hair, the clawmarks rending his broad chest, him standing tall next to Lucio’s gilded throne, the broken hopelessness in his eyes. He paused, hearing her voice, and she could see he was uncertain of how to approach her, even as their familiars wrestled playfully, licking and cuddling each other. 

“What’s wrong?” Iris finally asked, taking a step towards him, pulling her gauzy cloak around her shoulders in the late-night chill. Muriel’s eyes flitted down. 

“I need to talk to Asra.” Muriel said quietly, a soft, dusky blush rising on his cheeks. 

“He’s sleeping, but I...should I wake him? What’s wrong, Muri?” 

She didn’t need to. The curtains parted, a pale hand holding them open as Asra stepped through, looking immaculate, as if he hadn’t just spent hours adrift in hallucinatory sleep. Julian was right behind him, his suit jacket buttoned and sharp, his hair slightly unrumpled, though Iris noticed a fresh love mark peeking out from the other side of his collar as the two of them approached Iris and Muriel. 

“Muri...” Asra murmured. “What’s going on?” He quickly breached the space between them, reaching up to place a hand on Muriel’s shoulder; Iris saw Muriel tremble, almost imperceptibly. 

“Asra…its my fault…Faust…” Muriel moaned softly. Iris tensed, her clairvoyance firing hotly; Vasalisa’s head shot up, her ears perked in alarm. Iris was only vaguely aware of Julian’s comforting presence at her shoulder, the fingers of one hand steepled protectively on her back, between her shoulderblades.

“What about Faust?” Asra asked, brows furrowing. “She’s fine, I can –”

“Asra, no!” Iris cried as Muriel’s hand jerked out from under his cloak, outstretched to Asra, his eyes wide with terror. 

The air around them simmered hot, so hot that Iris felt as if flames were licking her skin; glowing, white-hot chains erupted from the dirt and snaked up Asra’s arms, yanking him down onto his knees and wrenching from him a pathetic whine, of pain, of grieving. 

Iris and Julian lurched forward, and Muriel sank to his knee, gripping Asra’s shoulders, eyes darting in panic over his friend’s contorted features, but as quickly as the chains sprung up, they vanished, leaving behind only angry red burns on Asra’s forearms, visible through the untouched gauze of his sleeves. 

Asra seemed to hardly register the pain; he stared at his shaking hands, lips quivering. “I...I can’t sense her...it’s like she’s...” 

“Gone.” Muriel muttered. “It’s my fault...” 

“She was just with us!” Julian crowed, reverting to the only mode he knew; his hand falling against Asra’s brow, comforting, gentle, as he took his temperature. “What happened?” Vasalisa and Inanna were both snuggling Asra now, nosing against him, lending him their warmth as he shivered uncontrollably.

Muriel was shaking, too. “I saw...him, his form...in the palace. Inanna and I tracked him into the hedge maze. Faust must have sensed him, too; I saw her just ahead of me. And then he appeared, and snatched her up, and I...I froze...” 

“It’s not your fault, Muriel.” Asra whispered, gripping his shoulder so tightly his knuckles were white. “None of this is your fault.”

“...Why would Lucy take Faust?” Iris hissed. 

“Collateral.” Julian grumbled. “To make sure you show up, _draga_.” Muriel was helping Asra to his feet now, practically lifting him, Asra leaning heavily against Muriel’s arm. “He knows you wouldn’t let your lover’s familiar rot in the void.” 

“And to weaken me.” Asra murmured. “Without Faust, I can’t cast spells properly; Lucio knows that. He resented magic users...never had any skill with it...” The images flashed, white hot, in Iris’s mind’s eye – Lucio making Asra perform taxing wonders to weaken him, trapping her helplessly in the binding chair, her heart racing painfully in her chest, acid searing in her throat. 

“Then we have to get her back.” Julian said with certainty. Iris nodded curtly, kneeling to Vasalisa and Inanna. 

“Girls, do you have a trail? For Faust, or for Lucy?” Inanna snuffed and whined, and Vasalisa’s green eyes flashed; they were off, sprinting, guiding the four of them through the hedge maze, Asra leaning heavily against Muriel, Iris in the lead, Julian hot on her heels. 

The girls skidded to a stop at a major fork, sniffing and whining. Inanna nosed towards the leftmost fork, but Vasalisa rounded back to Iris. _Confused_. She whispered. _Both ways_. 

“The trail leads both ways.” Iris muttered, rubbing Vasalia’s chin. “Should we split up?” Her eyes flitted back to Muriel, who was watching her apprehensively, disapprovingly, his lips set in a thin line. 

“Its a trap; we know it’s a trap. It would be foolish to split up. Inanna thinks we should go left – we should follow her.”

Iris’s brows furrowed, and she opened her mouth to reply, but something dark and glossy streaked through her periphery, practically slamming into Julian’s chest with a soft cry: Malak, Dara’s raven. Julian leaned in, as if listening as the raven beat his wings and cawed. He raised his glinting eyes to the group, a triumphant grin on his face. 

“Malak saw Lucy in the maze. He can guide us. It’s this way.” Julian gestured sweepingly to the right. 

Iris’s mouth fell open slightly, her brows lifted. “Julian, darling, you can hear Malak?” 

Julian blinked once, owlish. “The damn bird won’t leave me alone. I figured he was cursed or something, but he’s incredibly helpful.” 

Asra let out a soft laugh. “He’s your familiar, Ilya.” 

Julian raised a brow, startled. “I thought only magicians had familiars?” 

“There’s no time.” Muriel growled. “We should follow Inanna.” 

Julian bristled. “Malak can see the path. We should follow him.” 

“We’ll split up.” Iris said certainly, sharply; both men cowed slightly at her voice. “I don’t like it either, but we can’t spend all night searching the maze. We’ll cover more ground this way.” She sighed. “Muriel, take Asra. I’ll go with Julian.” 

“You got it, captain.” Julian smirked, his eyes flashing mischievously, but Muriel was unmoved; his green eyes glinted coldly as Iris dropped down to kiss Asra on the lips. 

“Be careful, my heart, _haté abdi_.” Asra whispered. “I can’t lose you again.” 

Iris brought both hands up to his cheeks, cradling his forehead with hers; he mirrored her, his hands shaking still. “I will, love. I always am.” She cooed.

Muriel huffed, gently, and Julian dropped down to kiss Asra’s temple; then, without a word, he swept the two of them away down the other path, sprinting after Inanna. Iris watched them until they turned down a fork and out of sight, before looping her hand in Julian’s and rushing down the other path, Vasalisa at their heels, Malak’s dark shadow overhead. 

The further and further they went in, the fewer lanterns lit the long hedgerows, and their light seemed to almost cast red, bloody, in light of the full moon. Iris could feel her power pulsing in her veins as the moonlight flooded her, and she knew Julian felt it too, the way he gripped her fingers tightly, the way he looked at her out of the corner of Iris’s eye, awe tinged with confusion, the tiniest drop of fear; the memory of the willow flooded Iris, but she pushed it away, focused on Malak’s beating wings above them, guiding them through the maze. 

They came to an extremely long run of hedges, edges shimmering as if a mirage, and Iris paused; behind her, Vasalisa growled, her hackles raised. Julian, eyes wide, turned back to Iris, his eyes questioning, but above them, Malak cawed loudly, impatiently. 

“Iris…” Julian muttered, eyes flitting up to his familiar, uncertain. 

“This doesn’t feel right.” She murmured, her eyes darting around the corridor suspiciously, clairvoyance screaming in her ear. She gripped her lover’s hand tighter, pulling him behind her as she crept down the hedgerow, one hand outstretched, magic arching from her fingertips. 

An impossible gust of wind blew through the maze, lifting the hem of Iris’s gown wildly, rustling the feathers on Julian’s suit jacket. They braced and clung to each other, both of them shielding their eyes from the dirt and dust that hurricaned around them. Once it died down and Iris could lift her head, she gasped; the Hanged Man, his raven-headed form, in his blood-red restraints, his funeral shroud, towered at the end of the row, one beady eye regarding them. 

Iris, shock seeping through her veins like ice, took a tentative step forward, a strange compulsion pulling her towards the aloof Arcana, but Malak let out a terrible shriek and swooped at him, talons outstretched. The Hanged Man’s brow cocked in an expression Iris had never seen, never sensed on him before, and he caught Malak’s tiny body in his massive hands with one fluid motion. 

Julian gasped suddenly, sharply, and fell shaking to his knees, his hand clutched over his throat as if he couldn’t breathe; the Hanged Man chuckled darkly as Malak struggled valiantly against his grip, beating his wings helplessly against the cage of sharp talons that imprisoned him. 

“Julian!” Iris shouted, dropping to her knees besides him, but the Hanged Man cackled now, twisting his clawed fingers and pulling. Julian was wrenched out of Iris’s grip with a pained yelp as lightning-hot chains wrapped themselves around his wrists, his shoulders, his neck. Iris could only watch in horror as the chains dragged him to the Hanged Man’s feet; he turned back to Iris for one horrible moment, his body twisted painfully, his eyes wide, pleading, before the earth opened under him and he was swallowed down completely. A long, curling smile painted itself on the Hanged Man’s face, and he disappeared into the ether with Malak in his hands. 

Iris blinked back her stupor for a moment, panting with adrenaline; she wanted, needed to scream, but no sound would come. She sprinted wildly down the long hedge, Vasalisa racing in front of her, pawing frantically at the now undisturbed turf with a heartwrenching whine. 

“C’mon, girl, the trail!” Iris shouted, and the wolf chuffed, sniffing the ground before breaking into a run down another long hedgerow, then twisting through several turns in quick succession, so quick that Iris got dizzy, so quick that it seemed impossible, the air so thick and viscous and heavily scented that it almost seemed as if…

And then she and Vasalisa stumbled into a wide, misty topiary filled with sculptures of animals and magical beasts, larger than life, most taller than Julian, even Muriel. The air was still, deathly silent, despite the nature that surrounded Iris, making her skin crawl with goosebumps, the shorn hairs on the back of her neck standing up on end; in the center of the topiary was the Hanged Man, Julian in chains at his feet, Malak squirming helplessly in his talons. 

“Taking shapes is easy magic.” Iris spat as she took a few steps closer to the Hanged Man, her hand outstretched; at her side Vasalisa growled loudly, bared her teeth. “I’m not sure who you think you’re fooling.” 

The Hanged Man crowed with laughter, throwing his head back as his form coalesced, the edges shimmering uncertainly against the void until it was sewn back together again, this time in the shape of a 3 meter tall, muscled, goat-faced man in gold-edged black robes, blood-red silks and gold adornment draped around his neck. From his forehead sprung several sets of long, curved, pointed horns, and his crimson eyes, set with squared-off pupils, glittered darkly, dispassionately, like that of a bored child. 

“I see there’s no fooling you, kiddo.” His thin lips twisted into a wry smile. “Then we shall deal as equals.” He held out his hand in a wide, welcoming gesture, and some of the mists receded around him; two figures, one tall and reedy, one massive and hulking, both horned, stepped forward into Iris’s view: Valdemar and Lucio. 

Valdemar ripped off the horse’s skull mask and veil, revealing their several rows of sharklike teeth, a wide grimacing smile slicing across their fingers as they looped gloved fingers through Julian’s hair and wrenched his head back, making Julian cry out, Iris’s magic sparking at her fingertips at the sound. 

“You just refuse to die, don’t you, Doctor 069? Such curious creatures. Something as silly as love will leave you clutching to life long after Death calls your name.” Their red eyes flitted to Iris, glinting maniacally. “Even if Death has already claimed your lover. Isn’t that right, pretty homunculus?” 

“Leave her alone!” Julian shouted, and Malak shrieked in the Devil’s hands. The chains around his arms tightened with crunching chime, white hot and searing; Julian grimaced, and Iris shook. At her side, Vasalisa howled. 

“Oh, Jules, so valiant, so chivalrous.” Lucio purred; Faust was clenched tightly in his claws, wriggling feebly. “Don’t worry, we won’t hurt the pretty fool. We merely have a business proposal for her.” 

“Don’t show our cards just yet, Lucio.” The Devil quietly warned the Count, voice laced in long-suffering scorn. “The players aren’t all at the table.” 

Vasalisa snapped her jaws, baring her teeth. “If your business is with me, let them go.” Iris sneered, her voice low and growling.

The Devil lifted one corner of his mouth. “What a bold request, Iris. I don’t think I will.” Suddenly, he perked up. “Ah, they’re here. It seems they took the long way.” His eyes twinkled, and there was a sickening crack; in a plume of scarlet smoke, Asra appeared in chains at the Devil’s feet, next to Julian, his teeth gritted as he hissed and arched with pain. 

“Asra!” Iris screamed, and rushed forward; the grass of the lawn erupted into a wall of black and purpled flames that receded as she staggered back in shock. 

“Come now, Iris…” The Devil sniffed. “There are steps to this dance. If you do them out of order, you’ll step on someone’s toes.” 

At the sound of heavy footfalls at the entrance of the topiary, Iris glanced back, the grass still smoking at her feet; it was Muriel, breathing heavily, eyes wild with panic, shirt ripped and cloak disheveled. Iris and Muriel’s eyes met, and she saw his overwhelming shame, his guilt, as Asra squirmed in the Devil’s grip…

“And the loose end.” The Devil murmured. “Now that all the players are here, we can begin.” With a scooping gesture, Faust disappeared from Lucio’s claws and appeared in a puff of smoke in the Devil’s other gruesome paw. He grinned softly, regarding the familiars straining against his grip with something like tenderness. 

“Attachment is such an odd thing, isn’t it, Iris? Mortals, especially humans, grow so fond of things they have no control over. It can drive one quite mad, can’t it?” With a horrible gleam of his eyes, his claws squeezed around Malak and Faust; Malak squawked loudly, and though Faust made no sound, Iris heard her soft, strained voice echo through her psyche. 

_Help_...

At the Devil’s feet, the chains around Asra and Julian tightened, wound their way higher up their necks, creeping up around their chins, their lips. They both writhed, arching their backs against the heat, their voices distorted in pain. 

“Iris.” He crooned. “You’re an intelligent woman. A reasonable, noble-hearted woman. Surely, you want to end the plague? To free your lovers, their familiars? To protect your friends and your precious city?” 

“Iris, Iris, listen to me!” Asra shouted. “Don’t listen to him, he can’t lie, but he can...” The sound of his voice was choked off as the chains split his lips, gagging him; at his side, Julian was straining feebly against his restraints, his brow set and dark even as he, too, was gagged and silenced. 

The Devil chuckled. “I promise no harm will come to them, that you’ll have the end to this horrible plague, for nothing but a mere trifle. An hour of your time, dear Iris, with me on the otherside. Accompany me, share some sparkling conversation.” He smiled widely now, his eyes sparkling. “Once our time is up, you’ll be free to go on your way.” 

At her side, Muriel tensed. “Iris...” He growled, a warning. She could feel his aura shift fearsomely, his power alarming. 

Iris squared her shoulders and straightened her back, regarding the Devil curiously. “You promise me you’ll release Julian and Asra, and Malak and Faust, _and_ end the plague? For an hour of my time?” She questioned, her brows furrowed. “Do you think I’m a fool? That’s hardly a fair trade.” 

The Devil smirked. “Iris, you underestimate how lonely immortal life is. It’s been so long since I’ve had a stimulating conversation with such a lovely companion.” His eyes softened. “But yes, kiddo, I promise you.” 

Iris sneered; her magic surged through her, her sparkling aura a heavy, glowing halo. “And if I refuse?” 

The Devil’s eyes grew chilly. Without saying a word, he crushed his claws together, and Malak and Faust disappeared into more puffs of shimmering, scarlet smoke. Iris heard Faust’s feeble cries echo as she faded into the void. 

_Where? Help! Help!!_

Julian crumpled forward, his whole body contorted as he writhed in agony; Asra screamed through his gag, terrified, searching for the comforting presence of his familiar. “Faust?! _Faust!!_ ” 

The Devil watched them struggle with something like fondness, but Iris stood firm. Her heart broke for them, but something whispered to her that Faust and Malak were at least safe, for now.

“A tough customer?” He whispered, his eyes flitting to Iris’s. “No matter. Everyone has their breaking point. I think I know yours, kiddo.” 

Iris bared her teeth, and Vasalisa snapped her jaws together, growling loudly. “Try me.” Iris hissed. 

The Devil laughed coldly, and slowly ran a horrible clawed hand through Julian’s hair, twisting the doctor’s neck so the sinews stretched against his pale skin. “Be careful what you wish for, Iris.” 

Julian met Iris’s eyes with wild ones, two little trails of spittle running down his chin as he thrashed against the Devil’s grasp, against his chains, grunting and crying out formlessly; Iris felt Muriel’s heat at her back, flanking her protectively as Julian’s edges began to shimmer, just as Malak’s and Faust’s had. Iris’s heart clenched, and she couldn’t stop herself from crying out his name pathetically into the night before he disappeared into the mist, into oblivion: “ _Ilya!_ ” 

She was trembling now; her knees wobbled and she would have lost her balance if Muriel’s hand hadn’t fallen to her shoulder, gripping her tightly, practically holding her up. Her rage swirled madly through her, livid and searing and frightening; she swung her wild eyes to the Devil, who was cackling openly now, his other clawed hand winding up Asra’s neck as he winced. 

The Devil’s eyes flickered back up to Iris’s. “Can you bear to lose both your lovers in one night, Iris? I promise you that I will return both of them, and their familiars, back to you unharmed. For one hour of your time.” 

Iris’s eyes met Asra’s; his expression was pleading, even as his features contorted in fear, as tears streamed down his handsome face. Iris bit her lip so hard she tasted iron, and she whispered. “No.” 

The Devil tutted. “We’ve all heard the rooster and all been denied, haven’t we, Asra?” He fisted his claw into Asra’s pillowy locks and pulled, and Asra was dragged back into the void, just as Julian and the familiars before him. 

“ _ASRA_!” Iris screamed, knowing full well that he couldn’t hear her, couldn’t call back; she felt Muriel’s grip, bruising against her shoulder, as he trembled. “ _ILYA! ASRA!_ ” 

The Devil looked truly disappointed now. “I had thought you’d be more reasonable, kiddo. No matter.” He snapped long, clawed fingers together, and Lucio and Valdemar sprang to life from his flanks like marionettes on strings. “We’ll do this the uncivilized way. **Get them**.” 

Iris hardly had a moment’s notice before one of Muriel’s arm was wrapped around her waist and she was swung over his shoulder; he jumped away with surprising grace as Lucio’s menacing claw struck the packed earth, drawing deep gashes in the dirt. 

There was a cold burst of wind, and a powerful shield arced around them as a steady spiral of ice and frost splintered around it; Valdemar’s hands were outstretched in front of them, the pulsing spell streaming wildly in front of them, their grimacing grin unbearable. 

Already, Muriel’s shield was cracking feebly; Iris re-upped his spell with a surge of her magic, and leapt from his shoulder, backwards onto the lawn, tumbling ungracefully. She drew her sheathed athame and cast another shield around herself, crouched against the ground as she quickly got her bearings. Lucio charged to headbutt Muriel, but he wrapped his large hands around the other’s corporeal horns and forced him away with a terrifying grunt, sending Lucio stumbling away. 

“Muriel!” Iris cried, leveling her eyes on Valdemar, who was smiling menacingly at her, rows and rows of sharp teeth bared. “You take Lucio, I’ve got this asshole!” 

Muriel grunted in assent as Lucio charged at him again, this time with his claws drawn, razor-sharp; Muriel met him, his hands wrapping around Lucio’s forearm, and then they were wrestling. It was clear that Lucio was a skilled warrior when he was alive – even with an entire arm on Lucio, Muriel was struggling to pin him to the ground. 

Iris wrenched her eyes away from their sparring just in time; she jumped away from another arc of blisteringly cold ice, stumbling backwards on her bare feet in the slippery grass. With a gasp, she summoned a stream of flame that cut through the ice like a knife through butter, hitting Valdemar square in the chest and staggering them backwards a few steps. 

She took the opening to volley an onslaught of fireballs at them, lunging forward on her knee. Already her chest was heaving from exertion, and she could feel sweat dripping from her temples, her neck; she could feel the lace and silks of her gown straining with each movement, delicate seams ripping. Still, Valdemar staggered back even further, their gloved arms crossed in front of them in protection, but when the smoke cleared, their thick waxcloth doctor’s robes weren’t even singed and their eyes glinted with amusement. 

Iris rushed them, her athame drawn; Valdemar didn’t even resist as she plunged the blade into the side of their neck. For a moment, they were still, so still Iris could hear the gentle susurrus of their steady breath; then, Valdemar laughed insanely, throwing their chin back as they pushed Iris away roughly. The wound wasn’t bleeding.

“What...are you?” Iris breathed, eyes wide as Valdemar yanked the athame out of their neck like it was a toothpick. The skin didn’t heal itself, but gaped, cold and bloodless, as if Valdemar was nothing but an animated corpse. Instinctually, Iris cast another shield as the Quaestor idly flipped the athame in their hand, eyeing it bemusedly. 

“They say that fools only learn from their own mistakes, and the wise learn from the mistakes of others.” They mused, their red eyes glancing to Iris’s astonished face. “Doctor 069, your chatterbox paramour, tried this same trick on me. I suppose that truly makes you a fool, doesn’t it?” Iris remembered, in horror, when Julian stabbed their shoulder with his blade, and nothing but incorporeal fetor came out. 

“You’re not human.” Iris said quietly, clairvoyance sparking; she stepped back as they flung the athame away with a slicing gesture. 

“Neither are you.” Valdemar said with a giggle. “A dead soul, transplanted into a willing body. A homunculus. We’re not so different, you and I, though your fetters are not of your own making.” 

Iris and Valdemar circled each other, Iris’s shield sparking with each of her movements. “Fetters?” 

Valdemar laughed darkly now. “It took me thousands of years of working alongside the Devil to become this. With the Devil’s power, I’ve become stronger than Death herself.” 

Iris’s eyes widened, and she froze. “You’re the demon. The demon that siphoned off Death’s power.” 

They cackled again. “Perhaps you’re cleverer than I thought, little homunculus.” For a horrible moment, their form shuddered; the edges of Iris’s sight turned bloody as the miasma inside them jolted and twitched; it was chaos, inky, boiling black blood like tar, eyes and teeth and bones and mouths twisted around echoing screams. Wrapped around the form, over and over, squeezing, blood oozing through their links, were hundreds, thousands, of chains, gleaming, beautifully polished, black obsidian. Pain lanced through Iris’s sight just as the blow cracked across her mouth, sending her crumpling to the ground. 

Iris tasted blood, felt it coating her teeth and gushing down her chin, as Valdemar’s ice-cold fingers roughly grasped her jaw and lifted her eyes to theirs. “It’s a shame.” They whispered, blood red eyes dancing. “You are such a fascinating specimen. But the Fool’s body is spoken for, and you...you’re in the way.” 

Iris focused her magic and placed both her hands on their chest, shoving them away with so much force that their feet lifted of the ground, and their back slammed into a topiary of a rearing horse. Iris’s mind raced, scanning the ground for her athame, for anything that could…

A shriek of triumph echoed through the garden; just meters away, Muriel was on one knee, clutching a gushing wound at his side while Lucio lumbered over him, his single clawed hand wrapped around Muriel’s throat. “It’s hardly fair, is it, Muri?” He practically purred in satisfaction as Muriel groaned feebly. “You never were a match for me hand-to-hand.” 

Iris’s lip twitched, and she felt her magic surge again through her fingertips – she only had a moment. She grabbed at one of the branches in the topiary next to her, a graceful doe, and pulled; it shivered and grew heavy in her hand, her magic spilling from her fingers into the wood as it transformed into a long, intricately carved wooden handle, thicker than Iris’s fingers could span, longer even than Iris’s body. She had to tug with both her hands to get the last of it out, and with a final jerk, it sliced easily through the greenery, a ferocious double-headed battleaxe, the pristine steel glinting sharply in the moonlight. 

She could hardly believe how heavy the weapon was; it nearly ripped her arm out of her socket when she tried to lift it. And still, with the light of the full moon on her back, her magic coursing through her veins, she focused inward; with a lightning snap, all of her atoms imploding and blossoming, her lungs filling with cold void as she appeared with a shower of sizzling, opal sparks at Muriel’s side. 

Lucio whirled on Iris, blood-red eyes wide, and he leapt out of the way as Iris swung the battleaxe ungainfully, the heavy blade cleaving the dirt. Iris held her hand out to Muriel, and gold light swam from her fingers, sinking into the gash that painted his side, and it healed in a flash, the dark skin sewing itself shut. 

Muriel grunted gratefully, their eyes meeting for a brief moment, before he grasped the hilt of the battleaxe and pulled it from the ground like a knife through butter; he shoved Iris out of the way, raising it easily aloft over his head as Valdemar appeared between the two of them with a crack. Valdemar dodged just as the blade swung down forcefully, splitting a deep, curved gash in the lawn. 

Iris spun back and landed on her feet in a crouch, and bit her lip, thinking, her eyes tracing the curve of the gash, the axe as Muriel easily pulled it out of the ground. She glanced over to Lucio; Inanna and Vasalisa were both attacking him, Iris’s familiar with her long teeth sunk into his arm, pulling him down to the earth, Inanna’s front claws dug into his chest and snarling, snapping as he howled with frustration and pain. Iris turned back, and calculated back quickly in her head as Muriel swung wildly at Valdemar again, Valdemar easily twisting out of the way, eyes twinkling with amusement, as if they were indulging a child in their play. She might be able to pull it off. 

Quickly, she cast out her magic, little tendrils of fire snaking over the grass, careful to avoid Muriel’s feet; they circled and looped, joining together before angling inward wildly, scorching a perfect pentagram on the lawn. The outside of the sigil danced with loops and whirls, ancient characters and glyphs, arrows pointing out in all directions; Iris only hoped she remembered the correct symbolism, as the fire faded into the grass, leaving behind only Iris’s handiwork. 

She stood, as Valdemar ducked away from another heavy blow from Muriel’s axe. She swallowed back her fear, and bellowed, “Muriel! Over here!” 

Muriel glanced back at her, wide green eyes tracing the sigil at her feet, and, without a moment’s hesitation, grabbed Valdemar by the neck and unceremoniously tossed them in Iris’s direction; they landed with a nauseous thud on their side in the middle of the sigil. Iris, with a wild grin, kneeled and planted her hands on the ground; Muriel followed suit, magic flowing from both broad palms. With the moonlight coursing through her veins, with Muriel’s magic bolstering hers, she felt more powerful than she ever had before. 

The edges of her vision glowed white, glowed rapturously, as the sigil itself glowed; long ropes of what looked like molten gold reached up and wrapped themselves heavily around Valdemar’s torso. Iris whooped with victory as they, with a terrifying, defeated cry, were pulled down into the ground, through the gate she’d made, into Death’s realm on the otherside. 

Panting, she sat back on her heels, her vision swimming, her breath useless; she’d known binding was taxing, but not this taxing. She had only a moments rest, before the whining cries of wolves reached her ears, as Lucio tossed each of them away, finally able to pry them from his body, animal eyes wild as he charged at the two of them. 

Iris raised her hand to cast a spell, but Muriel was quicker – with a flash, the battleaxe’s blade was sunk into Lucio’s good shoulder, drawing a broken wail from him as he sank to his knees, shaking; no blood came from his wound, but his eyes crossed in pain as he lurched forward. 

“...And you never were a match for me armed.” Muriel growled, wrenching the battleaxe down and out of Lucio’s body violently, making him howl. Iris ran her fingers through the grass, little flames drawing another sigil around Lucio; more coils of gold sprung up, binding him uselessly to the ground. 

With a satisfied smirk, Iris rounded on the Devil, who had been watching the whole scene though narrowed eyes, a terrifying scowl painted across his goat-like face. “Good help is so hard to find.” He tsked in annoyance. “I had so hoped it wouldn’t come to this, kiddo.” He murmured, before snapping again. White-hot chains erupted at Iris’s feet, and she screamed as they coiled around her waist, her hips, her legs and arms, yanking her down roughly onto the lawn, her sore and bleeding chin hitting the ground so hard she bit her tongue.

There was a heavy thud at her side, and Iris saw Muriel sink to his knees, his own chains binding his hands behind his back, snaking over his chest and neck as he arched his back in pain. Iris wanted to reach out to him, to call out his name, but she could only whimper in pain as the bindings scorched her skin, her mind blanking completely, whiting out her vision.

Their agony stretched on for what seemed like an infinity, but it must have only been a moment, because the pain receded just as the Devil knelt down in front of Iris; her chin lifted, compelled, and their eyes met. 

With a growl, Vasalisa and Inanna lurched at the Devil, their jaws unhinged, their teeth glistening, but they passed through the Arcana as if he was made of smoke. They snapped their teeth in confusion, sniffing wildly at his form; with an amused lift of his brow, more chains sprang up, and, with a whine, the wolves were hog-tied and howling, gnawing at the chains uselessly. 

The Devil tutted softly, and turned back to Iris, his eyes sharp. “Attachment, devotion, love...” He murmured. “It’s so amusing to watch mortals chase these things, as if they’ll give their insignificant little lives meaning. In reality...” The chains tightened around Iris, scorching her again; she grimaced through her bloody teeth, and writhed, shifted. There was a responding tug as Muriel struggled – it was then Iris realized they were bound together, several of the chains looping and straining between the two of them. “...your bondage to others is what makes your lives miserable.” 

More chains – Iris heard their terrible clatter behind her, and the Devil obliged her, letting her chin drift over her shoulder. Spectral images shuddered and whispered behind them, all wrapped in white-hot chains – Julian and Asra, chained heavily to each other, to Iris. Aster, her chains looping around her neck, binding her to Iris, to Dara, to others behind her. Portia, bound to Julian, to Nadia, to Mazelinka, to Iris. Nadia was chained to everyone, so heavily you could barely see her skin, and she struggled the hardest. Behind them all, shapes and forms Iris didn’t recognize, their outlines shimmering and hazy, the chains spanning on forever... 

“And when those attachments hurt you, well...that’s when you turn to me.” The Devil’s smile was wolfish now. “There are so many vices that dull that hurt...intoxicants. Sex. Isolation. Freedom. Power. Control. And I….I own them all.” 

Iris's neck twisted painfully, forcing her to look at Muriel. “Sweet Muriel here is a perfect example.” The Devil dragged the tip of one claw over one of the jagged scars on Muriel’s face, eliciting a wince, another surge of pain arching through both him and Iris. 

“You suffered three years of imprisonment, of hell, to protect your beloved, didn’t you, kiddo?” The Devil drawled. “And how did he repay you? He disappeared into the mist without so much as saying good-bye to you. It didn’t seem like he cared about you at all...only cared about his precious little fool. The same little slut you’re protecting for him now.” Iris gasped, lips trembling, as Muriel’s eyes fluttered closed, pain, pain. 

The Devil’s grin was wicked now. “But it’s a familiar story to you, Muriel, isn’t it? Your parents certainly didn’t seem to care about you when they sold you into slavery as a babe. The way no one seems to care about you at all – everyone would forget you, if you let them. It’s easier to shut everyone else out, isn’t it, Muriel? To hide yourself away, deep in the forest where no one can hurt you?” 

The sound that Iris emitted was unearthly as the images flooded her mind’s eye, her clairvoyance searing Muriel’s pain, his loneliness, into her psyche – she saw flashes of the coliseum, blood on the sand, the bloodied blade of his battleaxe, his crimsoned hands, corpses piled on each other, men and women, their necks cleaved cleanly through. She saw memories of his childhood, chains around his neck, being forced to walk, barefoot in the snow, until his feet bled, until his legs gave out, until he was beaten within an inch of his life – a terrifying ship packed with bodies, the smell, the disease, the abuse, the dead thrown overboard carelessly – his terrifying escape during a storm that splintered the slaving vessel apart like kindling, him adrift on the Courageous sea for days with no food, no water, before washing up on the Vesuvian shore –

She saw him staring out at the open ocean, calm and sparkling, from the docks, ships with unfurled, sun-bleached sails venturing out into the unknown, sails the same startling white as Asra’s downy hair beside him; Asra teaching him to cast spells, make charms, sow illusions; Asra playing pranks on him, teasing him, cooking little meals for them out of mollusks and eels and seaweed, scraps from the market; Muriel staying awake while Asra slept seated beside him, his cheek pressed against his shoulder – 

And then, the heated scenes that returned to Muriel over and over and over, obsessively: Muriel’s face buried between Asra’s shapely legs, wrapped around Muriel’s muscled shoulders, Asra shaking and grunting beautifully as Muriel’s mouth filled with delicious release; Asra’s body arched and twisted under Muriel’s towering frame, amber skin glistening with sweat as he panted and moaned in ecstasy, taking Muriel’s cock; Asra asleep on Muriel’s chest, cheek nuzzled against one broad, firm pectoral, ear over a gently thumping heart, as Muriel watched Asra’s chest rise and fall, bliss washing over them both… Iris understood now why they had never truly been friends, her and Muriel. She kept him from the thing he’d wanted most in this world. 

“And no matter what happens now...” The Devil grinned, voice dripping with sick amusement. “He can never love you the way you want him to, can he, Muriel? Because half of his heart beats in the little fool’s chest. Even if she dies...” the chains around Iris’s throat tightened dangerously, pulling a whimper from her. “He’ll never be able to give his heart to you.” 

“Muriel!” Asra’s voice, rising from the specter behind them, sounded so, so far away, so tormented; his cry was followed by an agonized yelp as his chains seared him. Muriel’s eyes squeezed shut, tears falling freely, but he bore his pain silently, the way he had all his life…

“So why protect the little fool?” The Devil whispered in Muriel’s ear, as he twisted Iris’s chin further over her shoulder, tugging a pathetic whine from her throat. “She’s caused you so much pain… emotional and physical...” He traced another jagged scar that cut from Muriel’s temple to his browbone, and this time, he didn’t twist away. 

“It’s...” He began, his voice hardly a whisper. “It’s not her fault...” 

The Devil chuckled. “You don’t really believe that, do you, kiddo? It’s _all_ her fault. If she weren’t around...his heart would be whole, be all yours, wouldn’t it?” 

“Stop it!” Iris shouted, even as her chains burnt against her again, and she choked back her pain. “Muriel, what about Nasmira?” 

“What about her?” The Devil sneered, forcing Muriel’s chin up and locking gazes with him. “A beautiful consolation prize, no doubt, but one that could discard you like a used prophylactic as soon as the masquerade is over. You think you’re worthy of the love of a princess? You know you’re nothing compared to her. And she knows nothing of what you’ve done.” 

Muriel tensed, his eyes wide, and the Devil chortled. “Struck a nerve, have I? You’re not stupid, Muriel. Even if you managed to impregnate her last night, she could just dance back to Prakra, and you would be none the wiser. You could never hear from her again, could never meet your child. And you’d be back at square one, but with another broken heart. But even if she didn’t leave you...do you think she wants the father of her child to be the Scourge of the South, the reviled butcher of thousands? More reason to isolate yourself. Just you...and Asra...with the pretty fool gone...” 

“Muriel, don’t listen to him!” Iris cried, her teeth bared even as tears glistened in her eyelashes. “He’s goading you! Nasmira cares about you – I can see it in the way she looks at you! I care about you! Asra cares about you! It’s not real, none of it is real…”

“Asra isn’t even enough for her.” The Devil whispered to Muriel. “The little slut has to take two lovers to be satiated. Asra watches while the obnoxious doctor fucks her. She makes him wait. You would _never_ let Asra go unsatisfied…would you, Muriel?”

Muriel turned to Iris now, eyes wide with disbelief, with confusion. The Devil’s smile split his pointed face now; Iris swore his horns curled with glee. “Bring her to me, Muriel. I can rid you of her for good. And then… you can finally have the peace, the happiness you’ve been denied your whole life.” 

Iris gasped as the chains fell away from both of them; from the ether, she could hear Asra and Julian’s shouts of panic as their connection was severed, as Muriel rose above her, towered above her kneeling body, his eyes still wide with uncertainty even as he outstretched one shaking hand to her. 

“Muriel...please...” Iris whispered; she couldn’t help but tremble. “Don’t do this. You know he’s wrong.” 

Muriel’s eyes filled with tears. “He’s not.” 

Iris’s lip quivered, and she opened her mouth to speak, but it wasn’t her voice that she heard. “Your pain runs deep, doesn’t it, child?” 

Thousands of women’s voices, layered, gentle, soothing – it was her own voice, but not her own, aching in its wisdom. She stood, gracefully, her body not her body, and she stepped towards him, closing the distance in one smooth motion as she placed a hand on his cheek. 

The scene receded from her vision, as if she were watching it through a far window – surrounding it was bright white, and Iris couldn’t move, couldn’t swim closer, it was warm, the water thick, silky, and she floated effortlessly, no need to breathe, no need to panic. And still, her body moved, her voice, the strange wise voice that was hers and not hers, rose from her throat. 

“You are so strong.” Death whispered to Muriel, her fingers tracing his jaw gently. “For so long, you’ve carried these wounds alone. And you were just starting to heal them, child. You were letting others in. Learning to love again. Iris helped with that, didn’t she? She freed you of your chains. She brought you the key.” Muriel’s eyes were misty now. “You were finally able to accept that letting go of Asra was the act of love he deserved. Oh, it was so beautiful, Muriel. The ecstasy of sunrise after the darkest, coldest night. The sun on your skin after a life of nothing but moonshadow.” 

Death’s voice was soft and small as she cupped both his cheeks. “Don’t let the Devil dig his fingers into you and pull you back into that night, child. It’s a place of only pain. Here...” her fingers trailed down to the space over his heart. “It will still hurt here. I can’t promise you that it will ever stop hurting, Muriel. But with the hurt comes healing.” 

Muriel nodded silently, a little tear slipping down his cheek, onto Death’s finger. Death smiled, Iris’s full, soft smile, and brushed it away with her thumb; for a moment, all that passed between them was compassion and warmth. Then, Death sighed, heavily; slowly, Muriel sank to his knees, his eyelids dropping suddenly. Death caught him as he fell, and lowered him gently so he was resting comfortably on his side. 

Death rubbed his shoulder affectionately, a small smile passing over her face, before she stood, cracking her neck and stretching her arms above her head, grabbing her wrists and leaning to one side. “Oo, fuck, it’s been a long time.” She crooned. “It’s almost overwhelming...Shri’s body, Iris’s magic… A full moon, too...” 

Death turned to the Devil, and the wind rushed through the topiary, whistling through the shrubs, ruffling the manicured grass. Her eyes, Iris’s indigo eyes, glinted metallically. “It’s just you and me now, motherfucker.” She sneered, the corner of one full, bloody mouth lifting. 

The Devil chuckled, one claw thoughtfully curled under his chin. “Hecate. You look well. This form suits you.” 

Death raised an eyebrow, one hand coiled around a cocked hip, the other wiping the blood from Iris’s lips. “Cut the horseshit, Baphomet. I would have my own form if it weren’t for you.” 

The Devil laughed cruelly now. “And you would have a form more powerful than you could ever imagine if you hadn’t refused me.” 

“I refuse my nature for no one.” Death growled, baring her teeth now. “Not Óđun, not Enki. Especially not fucking you.” 

“Spoken like a true woman.” The Devil jeered. 

If Iris had blinked, she would have missed it. Chains exploded from the earth and Death sprung into the air, floating effortlessly. The manicured shrubs sprang to life, the horse, the bull, the stag, and they all charged at the Devil, who barely dodged, disappearing in a puff of scarlet smoke, the topiaries crashing into each other in an explosion of splintering wood and greenery. 

When he reappeared, he was at Death’s level, levitating in the air; he wrapped his fearsome claws around her neck and dragged her down to the earth, to her knees, but she forced him away with a powerful gust of wind, pushing him onto one knee as he slid across the dewy lawn. 

Their sparring was fearsome, terrifying, lightning-fast, the way only two powerful gods sparring could be; Death dodged barrages of chains and streams fire, the Devil sliced through charging topiary after charging topiary, dragons, furies, chimera, burning away poisoned vines that crept up his legs, whipping around his wrists, his arms. Iris, still watching suspended from inside of herself, feared for Vasalisa and Inanna, for Muriel, even for Lucio, who continued to cry out with pain, still bound by Iris’s sigil, as their power electrified the garden, the air sparkling with magic and singing with flames. 

Finally, finally, Death landed a blow, a charging bear that sent the Devil sprawling; a small pack of shrubbery wolves pinned him to the ground, and then one of Iris’s bare feet was planted on his broad chest, roughly pressing him into the ground.

The Devil cackled. “What now, kiddo?” 

“Don’t call me that.” Death spat.

“What are you going to do, seal me?” He laughed, as golden, opalescent, and bright white lights rose in a circle around them, a pentagram glowing beneath them. “You can’t even take a solid form. You had to steal Shri’s body. From this fool.” 

“I can’t seal you.” Death said with a smirk. “Not alone. But at least with Iris’s magic, I can bind you temporarily to your realm. By the time the spell wears off and you get back here, you’ll have lost your window. The realms will remain.” 

“You can’t do anything without Iris.” The Devil keened, his drawl lengthening. “You couldn’t even control her if you needed to.” 

Death raised an eyebrow, an imperious hand on her hip, as golden ropes rose from the ground, wrapping around the Devil’s wrists and ankles. “What are you going on about, Baph?” 

“I just think it’s interesting.” The Devil mused. “You told Muriel not to sink back into his hurt, and yet Iris was told to delve into her pain. Why is that? Was it to weaken her? So you could control her? So you could take Shri’s body from her?” 

Iris’s ears perked up; she felt Death’s eyes widen in shock. “Iris.” She said, her voice tight with urgency. “Don’t listen to him. He’s manipulating you.” 

“She knows I can’t lie, Hecate.” The Devil was grinning wildly now. “Iris, what if it was Death who was manipulating you? Controlling you? Iris, do you know that with the Fool’s body, you’re more powerful than Death herself? That you could take your body back whenever you wanted? You don’t have to let her control you.” 

Iris sneered, and gestured obscenely at the Devil through the window, but a little spiral of confusion circled through her, like chime in the wind. 

“Iris.” Death whispered now; the lights rising from the sigil flickered feebly. “He can’t lie, but he can twist the truth. He’ll sink his claws into you, just as he did with Muriel. Do not let him in. Don’t be a fool.” 

Iris furrowed her eyebrows, and bit her lip, uncertainty, anger, flooding her. And then – 

The Devil broke one of the golden chains with a horrible sound like shattering glass, and pressed his long, clawed hand against Death’s face, Iris’s face; the pain was unbearable, somehow worse even than the chains, like Iris was being ripped in half. 

With a gasp, her vision flooded back to her again, the use of her limbs, her hands, her heart beating loudly in her chest, but she still couldn’t move as the Devil arched over her, his breath hot and fetid against her face. They weren’t touching, but Iris’s limbs were pinned by chains to the dewy grass, and the Devil was cackling, cruelly, his pointed teeth bared now, just centimeters from Iris’s skin. 

“Oh, what did you do this time, kiddo? She was so close, Hecate.” He purred. “And then you went and fucked it up, didn’t you?” 

Iris, panicked, searched for the familiar imprint of Death on her, the gentle pulse of the mark on her neck, but she found nothing but silence, cold. Death was gone. 

“What did you do?” Iris hissed, though it sounded more like a feeble gasp, a whine. 

“To Death? She’ll be fine. I merely rid you of her for the time being. Just enough time for the two of us to conduct our business.” He reared back, a little, regarding her almost fondly. “I must say, kiddo, I’m impressed. You took out both my underlings, and you and Death brought our friend Muriel back from the precipice. I really thought I had you there. And she would have completely foiled me if she completed that binding spell.” He laughed now, a low, lowing, terrifying sound. “But you...oh, kiddo, you are easy to see through.” 

Iris sneered, and spat on him. The Devil merely snorted, and the chains around Iris’s wrists and ankles seared, tightened, drawing blood, and though he still wasn’t touching her, she felt a crushing weight on her chest, her belly, her hips. She cringed at the pressure, the impossible, bruising weight. 

“You like to be in control, don’t you, little fool?” He murmured in her ear. “You don’t like anyone telling you what to do, casting shadows on your light. Your autonomy, your independence, your power...you won’t let anyone take them away from you. Not Ilya, not Asra. Not Lucio. Not your family.” 

Iris flushed deeply, lips lifted into a dark scowl. “Everyone wants to be in control of their own life.” 

The Devil laughed heartily. “That’s the thing, kiddo. No one’s in control. No one but the Universe. The Arcana. You tried so desperately to stop this, and you can’t. The Universe has spoken. But...” He leaned even closer to Iris. “I can give you control. I can give you the power to protect your lovers, your friends. You’re already so powerful, with Death at your back, your magic in your veins, your lovers by your side. Imagine what you can do with me inside you.” 

Iris bit her lip, and turned away. “No. No, I can’t.” 

“You can’t?” The Devil whispered. Iris had never felt anything like this, tingling and burning, heat and coolness, the horrible, animal pressure of his aura over her, like being touched everywhere at once but the ache, the ache of not being touched at all. “Or you won’t?” 

“Stop.” Iris pleaded. “Please stop. I won’t.” 

“Iris.” The Devil drawled, his eyes hooded, his smile endless. “You can save them. Ilya and Asra. Their familiars. I’ll bring them back for you. I’ll give you the power to protect them, to protect anyone you want. And then, no one can control you. An hour of your time. Or else… they’ll rot in the void. I suppose, you would be doing them a favor. They’ll be saved the chaos of the new realm.” 

Iris grimaced, her heart boiling with heat, with confusion – she searched for their voices, Asra’s, Julian’s, Death’s, anyone’s. The Devil tutted. 

“Think of everything they’ve given up for you, your lovers. Asra fled for you, mangled his heart for you, bargained with the Fool and the Magician and ripped you out of Death’s arms. He cleaned up your shit and piss and drool when you didn’t know how to do anything for yourself. Ilya _died_ for you, let Lucio have his way with him over and over for you, cared for you and held you in his arms while you deteriorated in front of him. What have you done for them in return?” 

Iris whimpered, tears streaming down her face, and the Devil’s grin widened, his eyes wild. “You didn’t use your power to protect Ilya from Lucio. You couldn’t keep Asra from leaving you. You had so many chances where you could have just ended Lucio, seduced him and slit his throat, incinerated him, thrown him into the void. And why didn’t you? It would have been so easy for you, Iris. Your power. You could be the Countess yourself – you could singlehandedly take Vesuvia by force, if you wanted to. But you have to be in control of yourself, your choices, your so-called fate. You say it’s to protect others, but it’s really for yourself, isn’t it?” 

The Devil’s lips were practically on Iris’s ear now, his breath wet, hot, swirling like a forked tongue, but his voice was deafening, his words rattling her very soul. “Why do they care for you, Iris? Why give up everything for you, if you’re so selfish, so useless to them? It’s no wonder everyone tries to control you.” He chuckled, the sound of salt, of seawater burning Iris’s throat. “What you did at that masquerade – everyone was punished for it. Julian. Muriel. Nadia. Asra. Everyone you loved, dragged through hell because you couldn’t control yourself, couldn’t stand that Lucio had power over you. You can’t be trusted. You’re a burden to them, a useless burden that must be watched carefully, controlled carefully. The way Asra controlled you. Erased the memories that you couldn’t be trusted with. Taught you to control yourself, your emotions, your magic.” 

The words knifed through her, she felt as if she was being suffocated, her lungs, her lungs… there was heat on her face, the willow, the fountain, the...the... “No...” she gasped. 

“But you could show them all, Iris. You _should_ be in control, Iris. The only master of your fate, the only one who wields your own incredible power. Let me show you. Let me give you that. I want to.” The Devil’s eyes were soft, but so horrible, so blood-red, so inhuman, yet Iris, she couldn’t…

“Yes.” She gasped, weeping, vision blurred with the salt-sting of tears, the iron of blood in her mouth, her teeth, as she broke. “Please, yes. Let me be in control. Let me protect them. Let me protect them from me.” 

“Oh, Iris.” The Devil cooed. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

Two skullsplitting screams ripped through Iris’s ears as the ground opened up around them, Iris and the Devil were sinking into the ground into the void, the starless, echoing, airless void. As suddenly as it happened, the world righted itself.

Iris and the Devil were on the otherside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: Y'all okay out there? Drinking water, eating fruits and veggies, getting enough sleep? Taking your meds? Good. Good. Because...this chapter. This one, right here. has been fuxjing me up forever.
> 
> I'm okay, I promise. 
> 
> See you in part 3.


	15. The Devil, Part 3: It's Damned If You Don't, It's Damned If You Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Billie Eilish - when the party's over**
> 
> _CW: ambicon, breathplay, drunk sex/noncon, killing, blood, vomit, attempted rape, graphic depictions of violence, excessive drinking referenced, drug use referenced_
> 
> _There is a graphic drunk sex/ attempted rape scene in this chapter. The section that contains it will begin and end with *****. If you are triggered by this content, please speak to a mental health professional, a trusted ally, or call 1-800-656-4673 (US) OR 1-800-273-8255 (US). I believe you._

Iris’s eyes shot open when the void receded from her like a sigh. She was in some kind of bedchamber – she realized, with a churn of her stomach, as she felt satin sheets cocoon her, it was almost an exact replica of Lucio’s, the cavernous canopy bed, the mahogany furniture, the lush golds. The only difference were the windows, thrown open to a sky swirling with sulfurous clouds, blood red, brooding gray, edged in gold and silver, carmine lightning licking the scorched, salted earth below. 

The Devil loomed over her at the edge of the bed, his slit-eyes glinting in amusement; his horns curled again in glee as Iris scrambled backwards, away from him. Her shoulders were shaking, her heart was hammering; she’d never been more terrified in her entire life. She felt defeated, exhausted, like she was completely hollow inside. She wanted to fight, but an ache inside her whispered it would be easier to hide from the world for a thousand years, burrow into the earth and let the dirt and ash fill her lungs, lull her to sleep. 

Her back hit the carved headboard, and she trembled as he chuckled darkly. “Oh, kiddo. Don’t worry. I’m not going to touch you.” He assured her with a smirk. “I’m nothing if not a gentleman.” Still, he climbed into the bed on his knees, his eyes sparking curiously as he knelt at her feet. 

“Is it my form that frightens you?” He murmured. “Should I slip into something more...comfortable?” His edges shimmered, and his shape became liquid, silver and scarlet and gold, before reforming with a snap; thin, sculpted lips stretched into a raffish smirk as he ran a pale, branded hand through unruly auburn waves. 

“Is this more soothing to you?” The Devil asked in Julian’s dulcet, husky tenor, blinking at her slowly with blood-red, square-pupiled eyes. One long, bare hand toyed with the gold buttons of his double-breasted jacket, undoing them deftly and throwing it open, revealing the toned stretch of pale skin and dark hair under a low-slung white silk undershirt. He surveyed Iris imperiously, his expression inscrutable. “This will be much easier for both of us if you relax, kiddo.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Iris croaked, her voice failing her. 

“We’re just going to talk.” The Devil laughed. “I’m a man of my word. But I do have a few things I wanted to show you.” Slowly, he sank into the bed next to Iris, Julian’s long legs flung out gracefully, the silks of his shirt, his undershirt, straining as he propped himself up on one elbow, knuckles resting against a sculpted cheekbone. Iris ached; the pose was so like Julian, and she could even smell him, his musk, leather, rum, the sea, but when he turned his eyes to her, she shuddered. 

The Devil was clearly entertained by her discomfort. “We’ve spoken many times before, Iris. This is the same, just...more direct.” 

Iris swallowed, and clenched her eyes shut, counting to seven as she inhaled and exhaled. “Okay. You want to talk? Let’s talk.” 

The Devil hummed; in Julian’s voice, it was just like the sound he made when he was amused, when he was aroused. “You put up quite a fight back there. It’s been a while since a mortal’s given me a run for my money like that.” His lids lowered slightly, Julian’s dark eyelashes framing the Devil’s eyes. “Why do you resist me so? I’m an archetype, too, just like Death.” 

Iris scoffed. “You’re trying to dissolve the liminal spaces. It would be the end of times. I rather like this world.” 

“Do you?” The Devil whispered. “The same world that puts psychopathic brats like Lucio in power, the world where children starve in the streets and women die giving birth while nobles eat and dress lavishly and party like the world is ending? A world ravaged by the Red Plague? A world where you feel powerless, useless, and out of control?” He shifted closer to Iris, even though they were still not touching. “In the new realm, Iris, those wrongs could be righted. In chaos, everyone has power. And you...you could have so much power. If you help me.”

A shiver ran up Iris’s spine, but not from chills, from fear; it was if someone had touched her, as if Julian touched her, his reverent, trembling fingers grazing over her ribs, her navel. Iris could see the Devil’s hands, one cupped under his cheek, the other resting on Julian’s angular hip, but he was grinning wickedly. 

“Are you really asking me to make another deal with you? We haven’t even completed this one.” Iris hissed, as more gentle touches snaked up her skin under her gown, her hips, her legs; she had to choke back a little whimper of pleasure that threatened to escape from her. 

“Oh, no, Iris.” The Devil purred. “Really, I’m just curious why you’re resisting something that will benefit you. Benefit your lovers, your friends. You could all be gods in this new realm. You could become Death herself, if you wanted.” 

“Why would I want that, if it brings suffering to others?” Iris growled. 

“Have you not suffered?” The Devil asked quietly; the sensations were growing stronger, firmer, roving down to her hips, like she was being fondled. “Hasn’t Ilya suffered? Hasn’t Asra? Nadia and Muriel? Aster? In this new world, you could never suffer again. Any of you.” 

“I don’t want to cause suffering, either! And neither does Ilya, or Asra. Any of them.” Iris winced and grimaced, trying futilely to resist the sparks running up her spine, the illusion of warm hands on her thighs, gently pulling them apart; unbidden, her knees fell open, drawing a out a soft moan. “Won’t touch me, my ass...” She managed, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. “This is definitely touching –” she was cut off by a gasp as something feather-light grazed her neck, like the practiced way Julian touched her as they danced together.

“Oh no, kiddo. I’m not doing this.” The Devil cooed, entertained by her writhing. “These are your memories. You’re doing this to yourself.” And then there was the warmth, spreading through her core, and she felt as if she was arching, sinking, leaning backwards…

_The crowds in the hallways parted for them like the seas before the gods. Even in their masks, the bright scales of tropical, venomous snakes, it was clear they were recognized. If Nadia noticed, or cared, she didn’t let on. She glanced back at Iris, a conspiratorial glint in her eye as an illusory smirk pulled at her lips; in her sequined, midriff-baring jumpsuit, black with every color of the rainbow, scattering the light over her slender hips, her toned curves, she could have stopped the Sun himself on his path._

_Nadia had shooed Ami and Primula away for the night, opting instead to dress and shod Iris and a few of her ladies and friends from her personal closet, though Iris had a sneaking suspicion that the matching gossamer red harem pants and very short blouse had been made specifically for her – certainly the underpinnings, a sturdy black silk bralette and matching briefs, both trimmed with eyelash lace, moved with her body as if they were tailored just for her. Even the heels, black and strappy with a blood-red sole, formed perfectly to her foot as the heel struck the cool marble, its echo blending with the din of the masquerade._

_“This way.” Nadia whispered in Iris’s ear, looping her arm through her friend’s and ducking through the crowd, the gaggle of straggling ladies, each more fantastically dressed than the last, dipped in behind them as Nadia pushed open a heavy door to a bustling room, a long dining room table laden with food of every color of the rainbow, from the deepest, inkiest purples to the faintest breaths of pink. At the end of the room, in front of a roaring hearth, a four-piece Vesuvian folk group was setting up, the calace and vielle players tuning to each other while the violone player flirted with the handsome singer._

_“Can’t dance on an empty stomach.” Nadia crooned; their friends scattered, some to the bar to knock back more shots or sip wine while they ate, some thronged to the food, others hovered around the band, waiting for the music to start. Nadia sighed in Iris’s ear, nodding to two fearsome-looking, fur-clad dignitaries with tattooed faces and ice-white hair._

_“I’d better go greet them, lest I start a war with the southern tribes.” Nadia whispered, annoyed, even as she affectionately squeezed Iris’s arm. “Eat, dear, you’ll need the energy. I plan on putting you through your paces tonight.” She winked, but her smile melted away quickly. “Meet me in the Orchid room. This could take a moment.” And she floated away, greeting the ambassadors with grace, despite the fact that the group drank several bottles of chilled Golden Goose while getting ready._

_Iris sighed, and picked up a plate, dejectedly surveying the heaps of perfectly prepared food, knowing it would all make her want to vomit. She hadn’t had an appetite all day; all she had wanted to do was drink, stealing a bottle of Nipponese firewater from the kitchens as soon as she woke up and found her bed empty. It had taken some very diplomatic convincing from Nadia for Iris to even show up at the masquerade tonight. And now...now all she wanted was to retreat back, to sink herself into the void. She needed a drink; she needed several. She needed to drown._

_“Try the lobster. It’s to die for.” A familiar voice sounded in her ear, gentle and low. Iris startled a little, and turned, shocked to find Julian, smiling softly as he handed her a glass of white wine, Gentle Noble; in his other hand was a glass of his own._

_“Julian.” She murmured. “What are you doing here?”_

_He smirked roguishly, brows raised, gray eyes shimmering. “If you’ve forgotten, I work here too.” He took her plate out of her hand, and started piling food on it, pieces of lobster swimming in butter, a scoop of pasta covered in pink sauce, a red cabbage salad studded with fluorescent pink pickled radishes._

_“No, I meant...I guess I wasn’t expecting to see you.” Iris muttered, as he moved from the pinks to the reds, carefully selecting a piece of blood-red cake dotted with cherries and artfully swirled frosting. “I thought you’d be with Lucy...administering contraceptives or cleaning up his puke, or whatever.”_

_“Ah.” He smiled a little, and Iris couldn’t help but notice how handsome he was in profile, his straight, roman nose, his high cheekbones, the shapely arc of his lips. “I have friends in the band. I promised I’d swing by.” He handed her the plate, which was mercifully not overflowing, but his eyebrows rose knowingly. “I’m guessing you haven’t eaten much of anything today.”_

_“How did you know?” Iris asked as she took the plate from his hands; she tried, and failed, to mask the sadness that seeped into her voice. Her stomach growled, and Julian smiled with something like compassion._

_“That, for one. Second, you’re not the first person whose lover has disappeared into the night at this palace. Heartbreak will kill you just as fast as the plague if you’re not careful.” Iris loathed the way he looked at her now, eyes hazy with pity, but they softened with something else, too._

_“Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?” She sniffed, the curved corner of her mouth more armor than smile._

_Julian’s gaze was sly and lidded as he turned his attention to his wineglass, taking a sip. “If you’re serious about apprenticing with me, we’ll begin our professional relationship soon enough. For now...” His eyes flitted warmly to back to her. “I’m here as a friend.”_

_Immediately, Iris softened. “I know. I’m sorry, I…” She sighed – she didn’t have the fight to resist when he steepled his hand gently on the small of her back and guided her to one of the tables._

_She stared dispassionately at her food, pushing it around on her plate with her fork, while Julian watched her carefully, sipping his wine. He pressed his lips together once, and glanced away, clearly worried. “Do you...want to talk about it?”_

_“No.” Iris said quickly, clearly. She took a bite of the lobster – Julian was right, it was delicious. She washed it down with a healthy glug of wine. “I’d rather just...not think about it. About...” She couldn’t finish._

_“Ah, well.” Julian’s grin was absolutely shiteating now. “You’re looking at the master of distraction.”_

_Iris giggled, one brow raised. “Oh?” She took a bite of the pasta now, creamy, comforting, slightly spicy – Iris had never had a disappointing meal in the palace, but this food was some of the most tempting she’d ever had. She let out a little moan of delight as she scooped another bite into her mouth._

_“What’s your poison?” Julian crooned conspiratorially. “Drinking? Dancing? Drugs? Sex? I’m rather resourceful. I’m sure we can rustle up what you’re looking for.” He lifted his eyebrows in quick succession, wide grin revealing all of his white, even teeth, and Iris couldn’t help but laugh out loud, covering her mouth, full of food, with her hand._

_Just then, the lights dimmed, and the band struck up a lilting reel that Iris recognized. “I love this song.” She murmured, eyes starry; she glanced at Julian through her dark eyelashes. “Let’s say drinking and dancing, for now.”_

_She could practically feel the heat on his skin as he blushed lightly, but he smirked and stood, his graceful hand outstretched to her. “Drinking and dancing it is, then.” He said with a dashing glint in his eye. Iris took his hand, surprised by his easy strength as he lifted her to her feet. She quickly drained her drink as he pulled her onto the little dancefloor, now packed with other couples and diners, crowding around the small band._

_“May I have this dance?” He asked, his smile still wide, but his eyes soft, questioning. Iris responded by placing one hand tentatively on his shoulder, her fingers tented against the dark blue fabric of his beautifully tailored suit._

_Iris was shocked by how naturally Julian responded to her touch, threading his hand between her arm and her waist to rest lightly on the bare skin of her back – light enough not to be threatening, but firm enough to make it clear his touch was not entirely chaste. Iris caught his eye, smirked when he winked at her, even as he blushed adorably – their chemistry had always been there, simmering softly under the surface since the moment they met all those months ago. Julian was fun to flirt with, for both her and… well, the thought had certainly crossed her mind, but now, it was clear to Iris that it had definitely crossed Julian’s, too._

_He guided the two of them gracefully between the other dancers, twirling Iris along to the dips and swells of the music, his eyes sparkling as Iris responded easily to his movements. “You’re quite the natural, Iris.” He murmured softly, his voice low._

_“This isn’t exactly my first time.” She responded, meant as nothing more than a gentle barb, but she saw the way Julian’s eyes widened, the way he scrambled to walk it back._

_“Ah…I’m sorry, does this...stir up memories for you?” He asked, lips parted with concern. His expression, so thoughtful, so sweet, made Iris’s heart skip a beat._

_“Yes...but...I don’t mind.” She explained quietly. “It’s nice to dance with someone new.”_

_Julian didn’t respond, but Iris saw the way his eyes darkened a little, his pupils dilating as they darted over her, the bright blue kohl on her eyes, the see-through fabric of her blouse, the bare skin of her waist. She bit her lip, and boldly pressed a little closer to him, so their chests were just touching. There was a soft, palpable tension that sang between the two of them, as Julian reacted, letting the music guide him as he dipped her, their bodies touching from ankle to chest, his strong, elegant hands easily holding her up._

_Iris let her head fall back, her neck stretched long, relishing the feeling of his body against hers; she felt the heat simmering again, pooling in her belly and between her legs. She smiled a little, a satisfied hum leaving her lips – Julian lifted her back upright, their faces closer, their eyes starry as he guided her through the final steps of the reel._

_The song ended, and another song began, faster, livelier. “Oh, this reminds me of home.” He said with an impish grin. “It’s a time-honored tradition to dance on tables during celebrations like this in Nevivon. And this...” His gray eyes twinkled mischievously. “This is table-dancing music.”_

_Iris’s hand grasped his tightly, her smile just as roguish as his. “Let’s dance on tables, then.” She cooed._

_With two graceful steps, from floor to chair to tabletop, Julian was perched on the banquet table in the middle of the room, his hand outstretched to Iris, his smile wide, full of genuine joy. Without a second thought, Iris took his hand, planted one heeled shoe on the edge of the table, and let Julian lift her gracefully into the air. Again, she was shocked at his strength, his gentleness, as her feet touched down solidly on the mahogany. “Lovely.” He whispered, his gaze wandering over her body again, this time with a noticeable boldness._

_And then they were spinning, twirling, laughing madly as Julian guided Iris through elaborate, elegant steps, lifting her over tiered cakes and towers of sweets, leaping surefooted over platters of grilled meat and bowls of flaky pastries._

_And Iris could have swooned, the way he touched her, his fingers on the bare skin of her waist, her shoulders, her neck, as they moved together playfully, exploring each other’s movements. Iris liked testing him, doing something a little unexpected every few moments or so, arching her back and dipping herself back from the waist as he pulled her to him, rolling her hips against his when the bass thundered in their ears, wrapping her leg around his, looping her ankle around his lower calf, just enough to elicit a tiny blush from him._

_Then, they were at the center of the table, their bodies perfectly balanced, striking a breathtaking silhouette as Julian lifted Iris into a twirl; she could hear the whoops and applause of the other partygoers, but Iris hadn’t even realized the rest of her world had fallen away, she was so focused in Julian’s movements, the scent of him, the curve of his lips, the heat, the slip between her legs._

_The twirl ended with a dip, Iris’s legs sliding under and between Julian’s. She miscalculated, one spike heel catching the stand of a tall tier of carved carrot roses in the orange section; with a clang, the platter fell to the ground, roses scattered across the room, the scent of carrot-crush under feet. Iris roared with laughter, mouth wide, her head thrown back, her braid was in the food but she didn’t care, she was having fun, she was drunk, she wasn’t thinking about–_

_And then lips were pressed to hers, warm and curious, as Julian lifted her upright, strong arms around her waist and pulling her closer. It was romantic, it was sweet, it made Iris’s heart flutter, but still, she felt something dark rise in her, something angry, something both hot and icy, swirling through her, gripping her at the base of her spine, and she planted her palms on her chest and pushed him away from her._

_He staggered back only one step, his black heeled boot landing in a bowl of curried pasta in the yellow section. Their eyes met, and Iris saw he immediately understood his mistake – he had moved too quickly, got caught up in the moment – he was blushing now, he was reaching out to her, the apology already on his parted lips, but Iris leapt down off the table, careful in her tall heels, and rushed for the door, to find Nadia, to find the Orchid room, even as she her heart thumped, her sex bloomed, as tears glittered in her eyes and she thought of Asra…_

Little tears stung in Iris’s eyes as she gasped back to the present, disoriented as her eyes fell on the dark gauze of the canopy above her, her fingers fisted in cool satin sheets as her back arched, the inside of her thighs sleek and dripping, her sex hot and wild, just as they had been in the memory. She turned her head towards the Devil, shocked to find not Julian’s image, but Asra’s, his full, rosy lips parted, the unbearably beautiful planes of his shoulders, his chest, bared to her, but his eyes were the same, square-pupiled and viscerally red. 

Just one corner of the Devil’s mouth rose as a golden hand, fingers ringed with silver, lazily tousled ashen, pillowy curls. 

“Why are you doing this?” Iris whimpered, her skin electrified with memories now, memories of touches, of kisses, of teeth and suction and tongue. “What do you gain from this?” 

“What...from showing you these memories?” The Devil snickered airlessly in Asra’s smooth, deep voice, the playfulness now a sour sadism. “I sowed so many doubts in your lovers, Iris. So many in yourself. I showed you some of their worst moments, your worst moments. Pushing you back into your own darkness. Like I said...it was easy to get in your head, kiddo. But you’re missing some pieces. It seems only fair.” 

Iris bit her lip and groaned through her teeth; it was as if she was feeling every one of Asra’s, every one of Julian’s, touches at once. “How?” 

Another airless laugh, the gentle shift of honeyed skin and well-formed muscles as the Devil leaned over Iris. “Oh, I found your memories in the Hanged Man’s realm a long time ago, kiddo. It was as easy as plucking ripe fruit from a vine. The hardest part was finding the right ones. The right narrative to twist. The right seed, the right soil, the right fertilizer.” 

Iris’s eyes flew open; her heart was frozen, her lungs too full. “In the garden, under the willow...Death said...Death said pain was...” 

“Oh, come on, Iris.” The Devil rolled his eyes, rolled his whole head on his shoulders. “You haven’t figured it out by now?” 

Iris knew. It flooded her now, searing her with panic; her back arched as a hit of pleasure shot through her, one that made her she clench her teeth and grimace. “It wasn’t Death...it was you. You took her form and you tricked me.” 

The Devil’s laughter was unbearable, a wicked cackle that revealed predatory teeth, far too sharp and pointed for Asra’s beautiful mouth. “It was a pretty good imitation, though, wasn’t it? I certainly had you fooled.”

Iris moaned; her hips were bucking into nothing now, little electric pulses shooting through her as she felt something coiling up, building dangerously, inside her. “Why?” 

The Devil’s eyes narrowed, and Asra’s pillowy lips were pulled into a thoughtful smile. “I could take no chances with you, Iris. You’re something of a wild card. An unknown variable. And I’ve been foiled too many times to let another fool fuck it up now. Though I must say...as capricious as you are, you are also the best possible outcome I could have imagined.” 

Even as her mind fought and fought, her body was gone, lost in the throes of its pleasure. Iris was panting, she was being touched everywhere, everywhere. “What are you doing to me?” She groaned after another powerful wave welled over her without breaking. 

The Devil chuckled. “You have something I want, Iris. Something I need. And this...well, this is how I get it from you.” 

Iris gasped. “The body. The Fool’s body.” 

“Oh, you are so clever, Iris.” The Devil whispered in her ear, in Asra’s warm, sensual voice, so warm, so mocking, she was dipping back, she was spinning as it washed over her…

_Asra lead Iris, their arms linked, Iris’s hand on the crook of his elbow, up the curved staircase to Nadia’s wing. Iris’s head was on Asra’s shoulder, and she caught little glimpses of the way he looked at her out of her periphery. He was exhausted, his soulful eyes dark and shimmering, defeated, even as he looked at her with complicated tenderness, pained adoration._

_And then they were at the door of their shared quarters. For a moment, both of them were silent, not ready for what they both knew came next. Then, with a heavy sigh, Asra turned to Iris, his warm hands tracing down her velvet-clad arms before finding her fingers, squeezing them gently, his thumbs tracing the lines in her palms._

_“You should sleep.” He murmured. “It’s been a long night. I have some things I need to get at the shop before I...” He trailed off, and there was silence. Iris couldn’t look him in the eye._

_“Please...” She whispered. “Can’t you...just sleep here? And leave in the morning?” She was crying again already, frustration welling up, burning hot in her throat._

_Asra gripped her hands tightly; Iris could feel his fingers tremble, and the tremor in his voice was palpable. “It’s better this way.”_

_She lifted her shimmering eyes to him. “I promise I try to won’t stop you, Asra. Please...let’s not leave it like this. Please.”_

_“Iris...” Oh, there were no words for his eyes, and Iris could implode to see him so heartbroken. This would only draw this out, she knew. She knew she was being selfish, childish, but she...she couldn’t bear it. One more night. One more night. That was all they had left._

_Asra’s eyelashes fluttered as he took a deep, soft breath, before he slid the door open to the room and lead Iris inside._

_Their bedroom was dark, illuminated only by the light of the waxing moon slipping through the gauzy curtains. Iris didn’t even make to illuminate the lamps; her hands floated up to her shoulders, gently tracing the velvet, sinking her thumbs in the seams as the track clacked shut behind her. She paused, exhaling quietly as she took off her mask, setting it down on the desk before pushing the sleeves off her shoulders._

_Soft lips kissed her spine as warm palms covered her hands. “Let me...” Asra whispered softly, slowly, slowly peeling the dress off her shoulders, her arms. “I...I may never have another chance to...”_

_Iris looked back at him over her shoulder as the fabric pooled liquidly at her waist; she carefully undid the delicate fingerstays that held her sleeves in place, and Asra skillfully unfastened the small rows of clasps at her waist. Then the dress was gone, slipping easily over her hips and falling to the floor. She was only wearing the emerald now._

_Asra’s hands hovered over her skin, as if he was uncertain if he was allowed to touch her. With a sad smile, Iris guided his fingers to her hips, which he grasped gently, leaning into her so his chest was pressed against her back, his lips in her hair._

_“There are so many things we may never have another chance to do.” Iris murmured, lengthening and arching her neck, and Asra responded beautifully to her, kissing the dip where her neck met her shoulder, drawing a gentle shiver from her._

_“Then let’s get it right this time.” His words were so warm against her skin, his golden hands rising slow as the sun up the slope of her hips to her waist, fingers forming to the inward curve of her ribs, drifting down the soft crests of her belly. Iris reached back, gently carding her fingers through his hair as he kissed his way down her neck to her shoulder, little lingering things that tingled on Iris’s skin like the moonlight._

_She spun slowly in his arms so she was facing him, their noses touching as she pushed the velvet cloak off his shoulders, undid the row of alabaster buttons down his sternum, his meridian, until his impossibly smooth amber skin was under her fingertips. He walked her gently backwards the two steps to the wall, pressing his chest into hers just enough so her back was flush against the cool stone._

_Iris’s heart was already pounding in her ears when Asra kissed her, his mouth hers to claim as her own one last time. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as a strong hand lifted one of her legs around his hips, the other hand clinging to her waist, her back, for dear life as their hips searched for each other’s. No amount of kissing was enough, every moment they pulled away for air felt like defeat, every inch of their skin not touching the other’s a punishment, an unjust death._

_They were both breathless and panting, Iris’s hands cupping Asra’s jaw, thumbs memorizing the unreal curves of his cheekbones, when he pulled away. With parted and swollen lips, with eyes unbearable in their adoration, their desperation, he dropped silently to his knees, pressing long kisses into the inside of Iris’s thighs before brushing his parted lips against her sex._

_She whined so quietly it could have been a trick of the night, the wind rustling the curtains; she looped her knee over Asra’s shoulder, and he grasped her leg greedily, looking up at her through his luscious eyelashes before licking his lips and kissing her again. Iris’s sounds were sharper this time, little pleading groans that Asra felt in his belly, his groin, his stirring sex. Still, he only kissed her, her plush, velvety labia, the downy hair, the dimpled skin and dappled creases of her vulva, until his lips were coated with her slip._

_The whimpers, the aching, begging moans that passed Iris’s lips, were piteous. With just his kisses, she was boneless in his hands, helpless, pathetic. Would any other lover make her shake like this, make her wet like this? Would they be able to relax her with just one hand in her hand, one kiss on the back of her neck, one touch of her thigh, the way he could? Would she imagine this moment when she was with any lover after him, the way he finally parted her lips so gently with his tongue, playing with her pleasure as he pressed his tongue over and over, so so perfectly, into her heat? Would they look at her with those soulful eyes, like she were the sun, the moon and the stars, the only light in the world?_

_He groaned openly at the taste of her, the sound resonating through the room as he laved up and down her entire sex, swirling slowly around her clit before his tongue returned home inside her. Then, suddenly, he was sucking the bud of her clitoris, all her nerves firing sharply at once. She cried out, and Asra grasped her thigh tighter, sliding his palm down her other shaking leg, gasping quietly at her sounds. She pushed the hair out of his eyes gently, fingers wrapped around his curls, as she arched her back and ground a little against him, drawing the tiniest smile from him._

_He was patient, intentional, not drawing her orgasm out too soon. He pleased her teasingly, lovingly, masterfully, until her whole body was shaking, quivering, in his arms, until she was canting her hips wantonly against his mouth, until she was chanting his name like a prayer. When she came, it was like the morning sun slanting through the cedars, the panorama from the top of the Hermit’s summit, the endless expanse of the Courageous sea: breathtaking, a rapturous, wondrous thing to witness._

_Asra kissed her down as she returned earthside, his mouth traveling up her mound, her navel, the underside of her breasts, the emerald nestled between them, until he was standing, kissing Iris hotly, groaning softly, singlemindedly. His hand still held her thigh around his waist while the other fumbled to push the waistband of his pants down, just enough so his erection could spring free, so he could press himself against the slickness, the heat between Iris’s legs._

_Iris moaned quietly as Asra palmed her other thigh, roughly, needfully: “Is this… Can I…?” He began, his voice a breathless, broken whisper as he cast the barrier spell, flooding the room for a moment with soft purple light._

_Iris hummed in anticipation, nodding feverishly, ripping the open shirt off his back before he lifted her, chest pressed to hers as he pressed her into the wall, her legs open for him, his arms looped under her knees, her clinging to his back, his neck. They paused only a brief moment to kiss, their tongues swirling needfully – Iris swore she could taste the sadness mingled with Asra’s heavy desire as he gyrated his hips against her, his cock blinding searching for her warmth. When the tip caught, slipped inside, they both gasped, their eyes meeting, cloudy, pupils blown wide, foreheads touching, mouths hanging open; then Asra pressed in, all the way in, one slow, fluid motion, and Iris had to close her eyes, to throw her head back, to call out his name as he filled her._

_Asra grunted softly, then groaned as Iris’s body welcomed him, lengthening around him, growing warmer, wetter. His lips found her shoulders, her neck, her chin, her cheeks, kissing her wildly as he thrust into her tortuously, languorously, pulling her up slightly to meet him with each motion._

_Iris clung to him, one hand clutching the nape of his neck, the other clawing into the small of his back, as he plunged into her slowly, his tip just dragging against the little bundle of nerves inside of her. She tried to arch her back, but his weight was on her, he was pressing his forehead against her cheek now as he pumped, as his breath came to him in sweet, gasping pants. His pelvis was pressed against hers just so that his smooth pubis rubbed against her clit, making her sounds all the louder as he rocked her towards another orgasm._

_Iris had no idea how long it was before Asra, arms shaking with the exertion of holding her aloft, lifted her away from the wall, their lips meeting as he carried her to the bed. They tumbled ungracefully together onto the covers, the soft silks warm like Asra’s skin against her back. He never broke pace, but now he could touch Iris, his hand swimming between her legs to tease her as he increased his pace, as he nipped and sucked tenderly at her neck, as Iris wrapped her legs around his waist and guided him deeper into her, making them both groan in delicious, licentious harmony._

_They met each other’s movements, going slowly together, savoring each sound, each kiss, each touch, each whisper of their hips. Each thrust was punctuated by a warm cry from Iris, a breathless groan from Asra. He was going so deep, his thrusts so strong, that it was only a matter of time before Iris came again, this time with series of soft shouts, her body cinching and bucking around him as he memorized every squirm, every sensation, every noise that left her lips as her body fell blank as oblivion._

_As Iris laughed breathlessly, settling from her orgasm, Asra carefully rolled the two them so he was laying on his back and Iris’s chest was flush against his as she laid on top of him. He planted his feet on the bed and thrust up into her, more quickly now, and they kissed, they kissed and kissed. Iris dragged her fingernails through his hair as he palmed her arching back, the swells of her ass, sighing her name into her open mouth as he chased his own release, his heart pounding against Iris’s breasts._

_“Oh, Gods...” He murmured, his head falling back into the sheets, baring his golden neck to her. “Oh, Iris, Iris, my heart...”_

_She planted a hand on either side of his head and ground her hips into his, lifting herself up slightly; she wanted to see him, to treasure this moment. She wanted to remember the gorgeous, rose-hued flush that darkened his cheeks, his nose, the way he screwed up his beautiful eyes as he focused, the noises he made, the grunts and the groans, the way his neck flexed and stretched deliciously. Iris dipped down to suck a mark there, to nibble his earlobe and whisper to him._

_“Yes, Asra, yes, yes, that feels good, so good...”_

_His response was a tremulous moan, his hips stuttering, before he grunted quietly, his amber shoulders shaking, his hands grasping her even tighter. “Iris – oh, Iris, I’m –”_

_With one fluid, practiced motion, Iris pulled herself off of Asra and scooted down, quickly taking his cock into her mouth and sucking hard. Asra practically shouted in surprise as he sank into a different, wet, willing heat; he propped himself up on his elbows, mouth wide, and watched her while she worked him expertly to his edge. His gaze traced the chignon that held her wild hair back that was working itself undone, the graceful plane of her arched back, the bountiful rise of her ass, before finally falling on the large, sad eyes she looked up at him through now._

_They were looking into each other’s eyes when Asra came, discarding all restraint as he bucked his hips up against Iris’s lips. His words were gone, he could hardly remember his own name, but only one name mattered in this moment as he filled her mouth: “Iris, Iris, Iris, Iris...”_

_Iris could cry, he tasted so good to her; she loved this, she loved seeing him in ecstasy, even as he grew soft in her mouth, even as she wiped away the little trails of saliva and cum that had leaked out of the corners of her lips. She massaged his thighs with her palms as he laid glowing on the bed, still whispering her name – only when she crawled to him, when he took her into his arms again, when he kissed her needfully, did they both fall silent._

_Asra finally broke away from the kiss, smoothing the long tendrils of white-blonde that had fallen out of Iris’s chignon away from her eyes. “I don’t want to be apart from you, Iris.”_

_“Asra...” Iris whispered. “You won’t stay, and I won’t go. I don’t want to fight anymore.”_

_“This will break my heart.” He said softly, voice drenched and heavy._

_Iris kissed him. “Do you think mine won’t?” She murmured, her fingers tracing their way up his toned stomach to his chest, where his heart beat under his ribs. “...Where I does not exist, nor you, / so close that your hand on my chest is my hand / so close that your eyes close with my dreams.” She whispered, as Asra’s hand floated to hers, grasping it gently._

_“Neruda.” He whispered, gazing down at her; the devotion that shined in his eyes was dazzling. “Iris...I – I love you. I love you so much.” He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing her palm, his long lashes fluttering against her fingertips. “This isn’t easy for me.”_

_“I know, Asra.” Iris replied, so tenderly that Asra ached. “I...I love you, too.”_

_His kisses trailed up her arm, to the crook of her elbow, where he nipped at the sensitive skin softly before introducing his warm tongue; but sleep kissed Iris’s eyelids, and she drifted off coiled around Asra as if he were all that tethered her earthside…_

_It was still dark when Iris woke to the sounds of careful shuffling – Asra was packing, as quietly as he could, in the dark. Sorrow buried itself through Iris’s heavy limbs, her heart, as she let her eyelids flutter open, just enough to catch Asra’s silhouette against the almost-full moon in the window, his naked torso glowing in the silver light as he shifted through the contents of their shared desk, the groaning bookshelves, selecting a book or two to stow into his satchel._

_He bit the nail of his thumb thoughtfully, scanning the room, eyes narrowed; then, he grabbed the shirt tossed over the desk chair, slipping it so smoothly over his shoulders that Iris ached. He deftly wound his favorite tasseled scarf around his neck before wrapping his cloak over his shoulders, careful not to disturb Faust, who was nestled asleep in the pooled hood at his back. Then, his satchel secured at his hip, he was crossing the room without a sound; when his hand fell on the doorknob, he paused, swinging his gaze to Iris._

_She opened her eyes fully now, meeting his. He inhaled softly, eyes widening; he clearly hadn’t expected for her to be awake. They were frozen, for a long moment, before Iris whispered: “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”_

_Asra’s shoulders slumped, his eyes doleful. Without a word, he crossed back over to the bed, knelt beside Iris, and traced his fingers over her temple, smoothing a long strand of hair away. “I thought...” He whispered. “I thought if I woke you, I would never leave.”_

_“Then don’t.” Iris murmured, the softest desperation edging into her voice as she placed her hands on both his cheeks. “Please, Asra. Don’t do this.”_

_“Iris...you promised.” He looked at her, one last time, the fullness of her cheeks, the way her lips parted, the way her feathery eyelashes framed her large, unearthly indigo eyes, now steeped in pain. “I have to.” He traced the pad of his his thumb over her brow, and Iris fought as heavy sleep settled on her. “I have to do this.”_

_He leaned down and pressed one long, lingering kiss against her lips before standing. The last thing Iris saw was the silhouette of his body in the doorframe, the light of the hallway haloing around his shoulders, his snowy hair, his gorgeous profile, the soulful violet of his eyes illuminated sadly in the low light. On the bedside table separating the two of them was a note; laid on it carefully was a silver ring, inlaid with a long, delicate sliver of lapis lazuli, the one Asra always wore on the sister finger of his left hand. Iris reached for it, Asra’s name forming on her lips, only for her arm to go limp as the door slid shut on its tracks, as her eyelids failed her, lashes fluttering on her cheeks as she drifted back into her feverish dreams…_

_When Iris awoke again, the sunlight flooding the room was fierce and yellow and hurtful; the note and the ring were gone, as if Asra had always been a trick of the light._

Iris’s hips lifted off the bed and she howled as every nerve in her body coiled; her brain was on fire, all words gone, senselessly begging for something to satisfy her need, her desperation for orgasm as she rutted into the air. Beside her the Devil laughed cruelly. 

“You’re so close, kiddo...I thought for sure that memory would do it...” 

Iris had no retort, nothing, she couldn’t form words, only lusty moans, wanton cries, she heard but didn’t register the names she called out into the dark, Julian’s, Asra’s, searching, searching, her fingers clawing the bedsheets as she bucked…

The Devil leaned closer to her, Asra’s lips now so dangerously close to brushing her ear. “Do you want me to touch you, Iris?” 

Iris wanted to scream, to fling herself away, to run as far as her legs could carry her, but she couldn’t, she couldn’t, she only groaned loudly as she nodded her head wildly. 

With another cruel, bleating cackle, the Devil’s fingers dropped onto Iris’s bare chest, ice-cold; she gasped, her eyes rolling back, as he traced her chest, her collarbones, up to her long, elegant neck. 

“What a well-formed thing you are...” He murmured against her ear, Asra’s lips now pressed into the tender, sensitive skin there. “When all this is over, I might make a thrall of you yet...eternity truly is lonely, kiddo. But for now...” His fingers, Asra’s strong, stout, ringed fingers, wrapped around her neck, squeezing firmly. “ _Come for me_.”

And Iris orgasmed, an orgasm unlike anything she had ever experienced, the most powerful ecstasy thundering through her over and over and over again; she felt the bed wetting underneath her as warmth spurted down her shaking legs, up her stomach, as she shrieked into the darkness, as her whole consciousness hovered and danced in front of her, as she literally saw herself in the bed below her, convulsing and shaking and crying out in bliss – no. No. _No._

Iris watched in horror as she was ripped from her prone body, her soul tangled in the Devil’s obsidian claws, strange, uncanny, on Asra’s golden arm. Still reeling from orgasm, her empty body shimmered, then dissipated into a cloud of silver smoke, swirling madly, chaotically, before it shot into the air, dissolving into the ether. 

Iris felt a shatter of panic grip her, before the Devil turned to her wildly, his grin wholly unhinged now. “One last memory, then, Iris?” He whispered, voice reedy with glee. His form shivered and coalesced again, but this time, this time, Iris’s stomach dropped, fear spiraling, slicing through her like a screw through a wine cork – imposing bulk, pale skin, slicked-back blonde hair, menacing slashes of kohl around red sclera, red irises, all blood, all triumph as thin lips twisted into a toothy grin. And then she was swallowed into a sea of cold, dropping her, vertigo, vertigo, into…

_*****Arms, strong, around her waist, nearly holding her upright as she stumbled through the halls, her nose pressed to a strong neck, her teeth teasing drunkenly against swarthy, dark skin, sweaty and unfamiliar, the scent stirring nothing in her, nothing but desperate desire. A door opening, out of her vision, a low voice, her mouth full of sable curls as those same arms lifted her from her tottering heels, practically over his shoulder before laying her down roughly in the massive round bed._

_Here, here was a familiar scent – jasmine and lavender, the wholly human scent of hair, a touch of vanilla. Nadia’s room. The candles sprung to life of their own accord, illuminating the room in their rosy glow. He was over her, tall, muscled, handsome, his dark curls falling over his shoulders, tickling against the windowpanes of skin that peeked through Iris’s blue taffeta dress. His thick fingers made quick, deft work of her ties, her stays, and soon she was splayed open for him, her shoulders, her breasts, her navel. She finally caught his eyes, hazel, gleaming in the candlelight, lecherous, leering at her as he licked his lips with an impossibly long tongue._

_“Oh, little fool.” He murmured, his Aunamendian accent heavy, thick, dancing. “What other little secrets are you keeping?” His hand fell roughly on her breast, squeezing, rolling the nipple between his fingers, the skin pinching delectably between silver rings, making Iris arch under his touch. He tugged at her dress, and she sat up, wobbily, stripping it from her back and tossing it clear across the room – it landed with a soft, slippery thwump on the tiled floor._

_A need burned in her, and her hands fell clumsily, quickly, onto his embroidered vest, stripping the buttons without a care, ripping the fabric from him. He chuckled, darkly, and let her push him back onto the bed, climbing over him as her vision blurred dangerously, her head swam, sharp stung in her stomach, her mouth – it was then Iris realized how drunk she was, thoughts not catching, like desperate lifelines thrown to the drowning in a hurricane, just animal emotion, instinct, want. She would not remember this._

_He was kicking off his matching trousers now, already hard, chest and stomach thick with dark hair, leaning back, pulling Iris with him to straddle his hips. His hands swam down her belly to her sex, and he growled at the slickness he found there – she mewled, trepidation erased as he stroked her, finger to the root of his palm, several times._

_“Oh, baby, so ready for me. You really are a little slut, aren’t you?” He purred. “Lucio was right.” His other hand on her hip shifted her, pressing her mound to his rising thigh. She whimpered, mimicking the movement of the hand he’d withdrawn, searching for that same rub of his palm. “Show me what you’ll do for your pleasure, pretty fool.” His huge hand was tight around her hip now as he urged her, his other swimming back behind his head as he relaxed, watched her with blown, hazy eyes as she rode, rocked, against his thigh, singlemindedly chasing the release that built up in her with each delectable rub._

_She was clumsy, wobbly on her knees, her vision hazy, her voice thick in her throat, but still she turned her gaze to him, eyes lidded and mouth falling open as she whimpered, rutted against him, the hard swell of muscle, the warmth of his bare skin, erection nestled in the crook of her thigh, hot, slick. He guided her hand to his cock, thick in her hand, and she smeared his leak over his length gracelessly, her thighs shaking and her breath coming in shudders now as every nerve tightened, hot, begging._

_“Ahh...please, p-please...” Iris pleaded softly, pathetically, increased her pace, swallowing back the bile again, vision cloudy, her head pounded, it was all blurry, sharp but too blurry, and she wanted to throw up, panic coiled through her now, but still, she moved, she moved. “Asra, Asra, please...Julian, please, don’t, let me – let me – Asra, please, my Gods, please…”_

_“Call me whatever name you want, baby.” The stranger crooned, hand tightening on her hip, urging her. “Just come for me.” And then she snapped, gasped, her entire body shaking as her orgasm seared through her like a shooting star, as she called out into the night, nothing but wild, quiet cries, as her head spun dangerously, as all of her parts were flung to the void, useless, useless to her._

_She was lifted, repositioned, her thighs quivering, her arms not holding her weight, she felt so heavy, so light and yet so heavy, her blood was thick and sluggish, churning, pounding painfully in her head. Then he was splitting through her – she tensed, panicked, but she couldn’t fight, just whine tremulously at the stretch._

_He shushed her, the sound surprisingly tender, gentle. “It’ll be over soon, baby. I won’t hurt you, I promise.” His hand smoothed over her back, soft, soothing, but then he was moving, bucking up quickly, shallowly, into her, and she realized that he wasn’t wearing a condom, she didn’t know the spell...why didn’t she have Asra teach her? She tried to get off of him, but he held her in place, his voice so pained: “I’m sorry, little fool...I...I can’t let you…” but she was made of clay, cracked, shards, she was shutting down, she felt tears beading in her eyes, confused, her voice useless, nothing more than whimpered grunts._

_Then he was groaning, pulling out, barely three strokes of himself before he came over her, she gasped, shocked, at the heat, the suddenness of his orgasm; she was crying earnestly now, confused, hands and shoulders shaking. He sat up, so close to her, she recoiled at the smell of him, animal, startled – his palm found her cheek, stroked away a tear, gentle cooing in a whispered language she didn’t understand. Then he turned, eyes sharp, pointed at a shadowy corner of Iris’s vision, his voice a growl._

_“It’s done. I did as you said. Where is Kiran?”_

_Claps, slow, deliberate, echoed through the room like thunderclaps, the voice that rose with them freezing Iris on the spot. “Well done, Ibai. You fucked a slut, hardly more than an average Tuesday for you.” Lucio leaned forward in the dressing chair – he was only wearing the short, scarlet robe, tied loosely around his waist, the valleys of his bulky chest in shadow as he grinned, darkness and fire dancing, slicing across his face._

_Ibai sneered at him, and spat on the floor, shocking Iris – he was half-folded, protectively, around her. “I prefer my lovers to be less drunk, and more willing.” He growled. “As I prefer myself. Now. Kiran.”_

_Lucio snorted, stood, lazily examining the nails of his human hand; deftly, he slipped one of his gilded claws between the nail and the skin, cleaning them. “Your wife is dead, you imbecile. Do you think I could let either of you go back to your court after this?” His eyes, glinting, horrific in the candlelight, flashed to them, his smirk curling. “Easy enough to say you both died of plague. It’s well-known both of you threw yourselves at me only two nights ago.”_

_The sound Ibai made was inhuman, a howl of agony, of rage – Iris was flung away, landing sprawled back on the bed as he lunged at Lucio, wind howling, slicing through the air towards Lucio, magic singing, green and electric, from Ibai’s hands –_

_Lucio dodged both attacks easily, eyes clear, flashing – Iris realized he was stone-cold sober, and several stone over Ibai, and Ibai was drunk, not as drunk as she, but drunk enough for it to matter. Just as Ibai himself realized, Lucio surged forward, claws outstretched. They sliced easily through the soft flesh of Ibai’s neck, blood squirting from him in wild fountains as he dropped heavily to his knees. With strangled gurgle, he collapsed, and Lucio kicked him aside, tutted. “And for what it’s worth, you were pretty shit in bed.” He mumbled, not even waiting for Death to rattle through him before he turned his pointed gaze to Iris._

_She was still frozen – she hadn’t even screamed, just trembled, naked, still covered in cum, in the silks of Nadia’s bed. And he was drenched in blood now, his chest, his face, his hands, as he approached her slowly, his tongue flitting out to taste the spill on his fingers._

_“I’ve always wanted to see you like this, Iris.” He cooed, his nasal voice animal, unbearable. “And I must say, the fear on your face has its strange appeal, doesn’t it?” She couldn’t stop him, slap him, tear at him, shout for help, her trembling hands feeble, as his threaded through her hair and yanked her off the bed, finally drawing out her voice, a sharp cry of pain as she stumbled to her knees._

_It was then she saw the sigil, a pentagram, lines sharp and jagged and inked in ominous black, in the center of the room; Ibai lay sprawled across it, blood weeping steadily from his twisted body. At the center of the sigil, a chunk of garnet, the size of Iris’s fists – five white mountain roses, tied together with a red ribbon – a chalice, filled with what Iris could only imagine was red wine, Sonnet Lore – everything doused in the iron-copper splatter of crimson._

_She was dragged into the sigil, and it alighted white at her presence, almost welcoming, as Lucio sank down beside her, as she writhed, twisted, trying to break away, but she was fading, fading, her senses shutting down, she wanted to vomit, her limbs were so, so heavy – she remembered all the drinks Nadia and Ibai had given her, the drugs, the – Lucio’s human hand was smoothing over her skin, smearing the spill on her belly – a rough circle over her sacrum, her solar plexus, her heart, her throat, her third eye._

_“Who would you be without your magic, Iris?” He murmured quietly, almost tenderly, though Iris recognized the knife-edge of his voice, the uncharacteristic concentration. “You could sing, certainly. You could brew your potions, grow your herbs.” His eyes flitted to hers, the final touch, her crown, and she wanted to die, die at the brazen lust in his eyes as he glanced over her, admiring his handiwork. “But would you be able to resist me?”_

_He crushed all of the flowers in his clawed fist, and the horrible scent of iron and roses made Iris retch, her stomach shaking as she fought back the burn that threatened to spill from her. Quickly, he scattered them over each point of the sigil, then draped the stems over the center, placing the garnet carefully on top. “Without your magic, Iris...we would finally be equals, I think. Could you refuse me then?” His fingers were on her jaw, drawing her chin up, pushing her lips open as the mouth of the chalice pressed, cold against her skin – the wine was acrid, bitter, spoiled with the blood, and Iris had no fight to resist, even as her mind screamed for her to._

_Lucio laughed, cold, cruel, as she cried silently, swallowed – the chalice was gone, it was pressed to his lips, he was drinking, smirking, eyes triumphant as the sigil glowed white again, then red, fire, blood, danger. Iris’s breath was nothing, tight and nothing, as his clawed hand wrapped around her waist, tight, laying her down onto her back, as he arched over her, his wide, wicked smile split over his white teeth, his demonic eyes, his brows arcing._

_And then her fight surged back, her final tide, she shrieked and pushed against him, writhing, trying to scramble away but his clawed hand circled around her wrists and pinned them, hard, painfully, above her head. Still, she arched, twisting her neck, her grimacing face away as he dipped down, mere millimeters from her cheek, and whispered. “You won’t use your magic to resist me now, Iris?”_

_Her heart stopped, turning to him, eyes wide, the sigil still glowing around them, bathing the room in blood-red now, as Lucio shrugged the robe from his shoulders, his human hand snaking down, down, knuckles brushing against Iris’s crawling skin, brushing only a moment against her cooling slip, before wrapping around himself._

_A soft knowing arched through Iris, a remembering – a soft, sweet voice sliced through with steeliness, certainty – and she glanced down. He wasn’t hard, not even half-hard, flaccid between his own fingers as he worked himself, a minute, more. Even in her drunkenness, her fear, Iris felt it welling in her, her head rolling back as she snorted, then giggled._

_Lucio’s eyes snapped to her, a cold fire. “What’s so funny, fool?”_

_Iris laughed now, the sound wild in the dead-silent room. “All this...planning, scheming, betrayal...and you can’t get – get it up...you can’t hurt me...” She raised her head to him, vision swimming, and shook her head. “They say it’s hard to get old, b...but the opposite s-seems to be true.”_

_His claws were at her neck now, tight, and his face was absolutely twisted with rage. “You stupid fucking slut. I could kill you, just like I killed him. Make it seem like the plague. No one would know the difference. No one would miss you.”_

_“But you.” Iris said with small, sage smile. “I die, and you...you lose.” Her eyes fluttered closed. “What you want is me. Your p-power to... have me.”_

_“You impossible, infuriating cunt!” Lucio growled, claws tightening, Iris choking loudly; but the sigil flared red once more, then sputtered out. Lucio’s eyes flew wide, and his human hand fluttered to the floor, to the pool of blood they knelt in, but Iris already knew. Cold. The blood was cold now, inert, useless. The spell broken. Failed._

_The sound that Lucio made was absolutely inhuman as he reared away from her, his teeth bared in a ferocious snarl, skin ruddy. He stood with one fluid movement, turned from her, and grabbed a wooden chair from Nadia’s sitting area, hurling it with a fearsome howl at the wall – it splintered, shrapnel, and Lucio turned to Nadia’s desk, shoving the books, the papers, the stationary, the correspondence, off with a sweep of his arm before kicking the desk over. He stripped the bed with a howl, shattered a mirror with his gilded fist, chucked a half-drunk bottle of Sonnet Lore clear across the room. Then he turned, livid, to Iris, and swooped to her, but her magic arced in front of her, white, white, shielding her._

_He hissed, banging his metal fist on the shield with a shower of sparks. “One day, Iris...” His eyes were animal, and Iris’s hands shook, the edges of her vision blackening, her stomach turning again. “You will be mine. Body, soul, heart...mine.” He turned to Ibai’s body, long lifeless, and with a sound that finally did it, finally made Iris vomit the sour contents of her stomach onto the tiled floor, he ripped the heart from his chest in a shower of cold blood and viscera. Her head hit the floor, hard, cracks, sparks in her vision, as he threw the door to the room open._

_“Clean her up, and clear the room. No one can know.” He roared, and Iris’s vision blacked, the drugs, the alcohol finally taking the memory from her.*****_

The Devil was grinning, all Lucio’s teeth, his red-red eyes flashing, when Iris returned to him, gasping, crying, sobbing, her throat raw from screaming, her nerves sizzled and frayed. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Iris.” He murmured through his smirk. “I hope we’ll be able to work together again soon.” He changed form as his hand extended, into a long, horrible claw, edged in those same obsidian black claws, before he roughly pushed Iris back, until she was falling off the bed. 

Then she was tumbling through the void, gasping for breath that would not come, limbs flailing through endless oblivion, before she was hurtled through another portal back into the palace gardens, slamming her back into the pack dirt under the manicured lawns around the fountain.

Iris gasped, the air ripped from her lungs – she was shocked that she could still feel anything, knowing, knowing… she sat up, her back, her muscles aching, her lungs burning, before she burst into a run, her intuition urging her out of the maze, out of the gardens. There was no one, she saw no one, no partygoers, not Nadia or Portia, no Malak, no Muriel, no Faust, no Vasalisa, no Julian, no Asra, as she whipped up the stairs to the veranda. Her footsteps barely registered, she hardly made a sound, and everything, everything, was awash in inky gray, as if nothing was tangible, nothing was real, like there was an entire realm laid on top of the one she knew, a filter, a mirage, a dream, and she, she was trapped –

When she reached the ballroom doors, the things her intuition, her clairvoyance screamed in her ear were confirmed; she made to shoulder her way through the door, but her hand disappeared around the door’s handle and she passed through the heavy, polished wood it as if it were mist. It seemed as if the entire Vesuvian public were packing themselves into the ballroom, shuddering and whispering to each other, but Iris moved through them like a ghost, and they didn’t even flinch to feel her shift through them. Iris was sprinting wildly now, panic unlike anything she had ever felt rising in her chest, chasing her heartbeat. Where, where was Julian, where was Asra, their familiars, he, he had promised…

Clairvoyance drew her eyes to the vaulted, glass ceiling of the ballroom, the stars as dim as tin in the dull grayness. The same silver smoke swirled like a stormcloud across the ceiling, spiraling around the apex of the staircase, the same staircase Asra and she had descended only hours before. The clouds swirled faster, faster, menacingly; on the landing, Mercedes and Melchior chased each other madly, their movements mirroring the cloud’s, their long snouts wobbling as they sniffed and yipped happily at each other. 

And then the voices reached her – the tender, gentle tenor, now deadly calm, almost icy. Even worse, the soft baritone, normally so smooth, so soothing, so silky, now ragged, gasping, wretched. Iris swung her gaze to the corner of the room; Asra was in Julian’s arms, his trembling hands clutched over his face, his shoulders shaking – Julian was talking to Nadia and Portia in a low, hushed whispers, his eyes sharp, his mask gone, no eyepatch to hide his diseased eye – no doubt explaining what happened. Malak, perched on his shoulder, worriedly preened his hair, the feathers of his coat; Muriel loomed behind them all, his face turned away in bright red shame. At everyone’s feet, Vasalisa laid dejectedly, her face on her front paws, whining softly, mournfully, Inanna curled around her side, licking her ears in cold comfort.

Iris ran to them, screaming their names, but she couldn’t even hear her own voice. The only thing that registered was a shift in Asra’s vest – Faust, dear sweet Faust, lifted her head urgently from the folds of Asra’s clothing, her glowing eyes fixed on Iris. With one fluid movement, Faust was snaking down Asra’s torso, his legs; she slinked through the feet of the partygoers, across the polished parquet floor towards Iris, her tail whipping back and forth in a feverish frenzy. 

Iris knelt to pick her up, but the familiar stopped, her eyes glittering, her tongue flickering with confusion. Faust nosed against Iris’s outstretched hand, but her face slipped through Iris’s form as if her she were nothing, as if she were nothing but a memory. 

“Faust! Faust, please don’t run off!” A desperate, panicked voice cut through the din of the chattering masqueraders as Asra shouldered his way through the crowd, his fox-shaped mask only partially covering his red-rimmed eyes, the tears, stained with kohl, dripping down his cheeks. He scooped his familiar up with one practiced motion, but he paused after Faust was in his arms, his brows furrowed in concentration. 

“Iris…?” He whispered, his eyes going wide, wild. Slowly, his eyes focused, as if he was looking straight into hers. “I can...I can just...feel you...” He reached a hand out, and Iris pressed her fingertips to his, her hand gliding through as his hand passed easily through the air. And yet, his breath caught, fresh tears streaming from his shimmering eyes. 

“You’re here, my heart, you’re here...” He whimpered, his voice strained, desperate. “Did he hurt you?” 

Iris couldn’t answer, though she wanted to scream; Julian’s long fingers wrapped around Asra’s shoulders, hauling him up, pulling him protectively inward. 

“Asra, _slatki med_ , what are you doing? You’ll be crushed...” 

“She’s here, Ilya...” He moaned, pathetically, his teeth clenched to keep himself from crying. “Can’t you feel her?”

Julian tensed, his brows furrowed, as Asra’s fingers found the space between his shoulderblades, clutching sharply. “Asra...you’re sure?” Julian was focusing now, his gray eyes darting across the crowd, surely conjuring Iris’s presence, her warmth, her sensitivity, her fierceness…

And then there was a scream, no, screams; all three of their gazes shot to the staircase as the clock tower above them ominously chimed, one hour before midnight. The tapered candles in the numerous chandeliers sputtered and died, casting the room into darkness, punctuated only by the soft drape of starlight, the silvery, heavy roundness of the full moon. 

The stormcloud whirling around the ceiling descended in a frightening column, like a tornado touching down, and just as quickly it coalesced, pulsing into densely muscled calves, thick and shapely thighs, a sculpted chest and hips, broad, chiseled shoulders and arm...and then, most horribly of all, the golden alchemical arm, veins glowing red and fingers clenching into a tight fist as a twisted smirk snaked across a delicate, pointed chin, framed by slicked back, ice-blonde hair. 

Iris, even in her sharpened panic, felt a brief moment of relief that she had no form when the guests shrieked and scattered, the crowd churning into pandemonium; the smirk widened and soured into a scowl as Lucio’s form solidified. He stood imperiously over his subjects at the top of the stairs, his hips cocked, his shoulders squared, and the sound of the metal scraping against the components of his alchemical arm nearly stilled Iris’s heart as he began to descend the stairs, his fearsome sighthounds snapping giddily at his heels, attempting to lick his hands. He was the only thing Iris saw with color, absolutely resplendent, the livid scarlet red of his sash, tinkling softly with his medals from battle, the terrible gleaming gold of his arm, the stark white of his suit. The horrifying crimson of his still-infected eyes, looking straight at her, smug, victorious. Her soul and her heart were still hers. But he had her body. 

“Vesuvia!” He bellowed, his nasal voice filling the enormous room. “Your mourning is over. Your beloved Count has come home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: woof. 
> 
> Neruda poem is I Do Not Love You... 
> 
> See ya'll in Book 4.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [MotherOfQups](https://motherofqups.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come yell at me, or show me pictures of your cat, it's all chill.


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